Page 53 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #7

In the Land of Fish Knives
tiny spoons stir the blossoms of chamomile
and soup is sipped sideways from giant utensils.
Ruff-like depressions
rest outside utterance.
Verbs slurp themselves down
into morsels of nouns
and every table speaks salmon.
Every accent is local
except for the landed
who speak the King’s English
in native disguise.
Soufflés come as fish pancakes,
sauces are dense, white and roux-based. Beet roots take hold of goat’s feet
like sycamores take hold of moist earth, like hands take hold of cutlery:
fish knives with fancy dull sides,
soup spoons with wide elliptical openings hollowed so liquid might thicken
be viscous,
and take hold of surface
like mouths take hold of words
self-sown and procumbent
as forces of habit
that creep flattened and pointed
on tongues sharpened
by implement.
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