three forks

three forks

summon up the boxes,

it’s moving time again.

i hinge my cutlery from a shared drawer,

like loose teeth, i never imagined

needing anymore.

five knives,

five spoons,

three forks,

wrapped hastily in a towel

blotched with turmeric

and corbières.

stuffed into a box that once held Welsh apples the cutlery sags loose,

lost to creased tea towels,

unopened post, a stereo i don’t have enough rooms for,

and a ceramic pot of sugar

fringed with cat hair.

last time, leaving a city of hills and haste

and worn out dreams, i thinned out my belongings,

in the hope of buying new.

now, i’m here again,

with a meagre bounty

of tarnished treasure,

still not having found you.