‘I have measured out my life with coffee spoons’

The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock
T.S. Eliot

by Lise Day

I need a canteen of cutlery for mine:
the blunt fish knife for tender partings
dying dog, old mother, children flown;
forks to sharply prod the memory
stab the lethargy of age;
Granny’s silver spoon to scrape the dish
lick the sweetness of batter raw;
serrated blade to incise the sinew
when the tender meat’s devoured
cut away the gristle, spit it out;
then great ladles of sloppy gravy-joy
that pool and soften every course.

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