There are thousands of forks and only two spoons
in my sister’s kitchen drawer. She carries forks with her
wherever she goes, gripping them with her whole hand,
tightly, like a toddler just learning to feed herself.
She quit another job this month, tossing
the doomed business from her fork’s tines
into the refuse bin.
It’s the third one since September.
She’ll pierce another soon, bringing it, dripping,
up to her teeth where she’ll chew and chew,
consuming the juice which blooms from it
for a little while. “The taste fades so fast,” she fumes.
Every man she has ever loved has left her
except our father. He, too, carries forks;
her youth wombed by those he’s wounded.
They make a pair, those two.
I tried to show them how to use a spoon once.
I dusted off the tool and scooped love into
its smooth bowl, but it reflected it back to them
upside-down; they turned the spoon over
and everything fell out.
Christina Linsin is a poet and teacher in western Virginia. Her poetry examines connections with the natural world, complexities of mental illness, and difficulties with creating meaningful connections amid life’s obstacles. Her work has been recently published in The Milk House, Stone Circle Review, and Still: The Journal; and she has work forthcoming in Whale Road Review.