salad fork

i pull the table clothe
to prove all the plates &
the cups & the utensils won't 
topple off if i do.
a perfectly timed yank--
no hesitation. stand on 
the table clothe & don't move.
be a fork-- the short salad one
or is that the short one for
the main course? i can never remember.
people have tried to teach me
how to set a table. lay down--
i want to set the table on your chest.
plate moves up & down 
on your stomach. hold your breath.
i used to have a friend who
would hold their breath till
their face turned purple-- purple
like egg plant. no food yet--
just the table setting. room 
full of bodies to set plates on.
living bodies, yes of course,
nothing morbid. i wake up 
balancing a plate on my lips
& someone is on the other side
scraping with the side of a fork--
cutting with a knife. it's pork chops
tonight-- invisible pork chops.
the breading is falling like snow. 
no one is invited. the breading
is partially made from gold 
as far as we're concerned.
i say look what i can do
to get everyone's attention 
& i pull the table clothe,
but not fast enough & not
with enough pride. is that pride?
maybe i meant courage. maybe i meant 
bravery. maybe i mean something else
but whatever it was i didn't have it
& i pulled the table clothe & 
all the dishes & the cups &
the bowl came slamming to the floor--
cacophony of shattering. fragment
on fragment on fragment. the plate
on my face cracks & the plates 
fracture on everyone's bodies
the one person eating is appalled.
i put the fork to my mouth
to pretend i'm eating a pork chop.
i'm using the salad fork. 
meat is salad now. sometimes my mom
will say she wished 
we had more family dinners & 
i pull the table clothe out 
from under her which is to say
that i don't say anything to that.
i set a plate on top of her head.
she balances the plate & tells
the rest of the family to eat 
off of it-- that she'll help
herself last.