dinner guest

i'm inviting you into my plate
which also means inviting you to sit
on a ledge. ladle for a heart,
i am prone to giving more and more
until there is nothing but
ice to eat. ice is delicous at least.
we have a grandmother clock. we have 
a back door no one knows about
but me. cleaning the microwave again
on a tuesday night & thinking 
there would be less uses for my hands
if i were a shoe box person. 
instead, i am the drawer of knives.
don't be scared though, first and foremost 
a knife is a tool of service.
let me cut up a melon for you.
it's almost ripe but good enough for me.
a palette is a mouth 
& a homeland for casual cathedral ceilings.
you are hugging yourself & standing 
outside. i hear you take out
your napkin & place it on your lap.
i have a peep hole from which i can sadly only 
glimpse the universe 
& not actually the outside.
is the universe outdoors
or indoors? we have no wine glasses.
so, i'm sorry i lied. have you 
ate with your hands this month? i do 
when i'm alone but now you're here
so i'm too embarassed. when i can
i have a sense of boundlessness.
your knuckles are made of laugh lines.
i have nothing planned to eat
but in the cupboard we hoard 
pasta & cans of little vegetables.
when i said, "i'm inviting you"
i meant i feel like if i eat alone
another night i'll be one day closer
to becoming a fork. tell me 
about your own tables. did your mother
like to cook? when you see a wooden spoon
what song does your body remember?
mine speaks in falling blue jays.
their bodies like shards of sky.
i think of the clouded front window.
a burnt piece of toast
split in half. one for me
& one for you. come again, i say 
with the door open. you have left
so long ago. all the plates ring 
like bells. i eat a clementine 
with my hands & pretend
i am prying open a knot 
of all my wanting. 

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