Howard Firkin
Let’s spoon. Let’s fork. Let’s never, ever knife.
Let’s lick our lips and kiss and hold each other,
stay warm and dark in bed and draw the covers
and cover morning—let’s snooze button life
and only wake to find our dream in bed.
You had a glass of wine with someone else.
I heard about it in my lower gut.
You told me that you had to tell me but
you didn’t have to and you did. As hells
go, there are plenty worse, it must be said.
Spoon: lying front to back and touching hips.
Fork: face to face, as fingers, legs entwine.
Fork: taken in your mouth, against your lips.
Spoon: supping you like broth. Fork spoon. You’re mine.
Let’s lick our lips and kiss and hold each other,
stay warm and dark in bed and draw the covers
and cover morning—let’s snooze button life
and only wake to find our dream in bed.
You had a glass of wine with someone else.
I heard about it in my lower gut.
You told me that you had to tell me but
you didn’t have to and you did. As hells
go, there are plenty worse, it must be said.
Spoon: lying front to back and touching hips.
Fork: face to face, as fingers, legs entwine.
Fork: taken in your mouth, against your lips.
Spoon: supping you like broth. Fork spoon. You’re mine.
