Forks It’s the old-women talk mothers wag on one finger, look you white-pupil in the eye, say: if you drop a fork while eating a man is about to enter your house, cross the two front steps – frame his too-dark silhouette on your door. And when you were young, You wondered Who this man might be— as you stopped to pick the silver trinket from the floor— and when will he come? Till one day you find him sitting across from you, stabbing a cherry tomato on his plate, growing frantic because it keeps on slipping, rolling to the other side. And when he drops his fork, somehow, you saw it coming. Stained, you take it to the sink, where you spend the next half hour washing dishes in cold water, laughing inside at sooth-sayers who made you believe in the power of falling forks— how they bring men, how you grow up, how you find yourself alone, in a kitchen, echoing with clatter.
Johaina Crisostomo
Benjamin Merrick 22
LELAND QUARTERLY WINTER 2009
LELAND QUARTERLY WINTER 2009
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