Why Did I Say Yes?

For Miriam Mulcahy

In everyday life, ask more questions.

There’s a rule to live by.

Questions about the form and technique of living:

how do you read a poem or get the scum out of a coffee cup?

You try hard.

Read the cutlery drawer as it was written: left to right,

past to future, imagination to critical thought.

The forks think themselves into a confused pattern,

knives live so simply, like monks or soldiers.

The spoons reflect the absurd world.

The thing is, you want to be surprised by life

amid the dailiness of routine.

Wash the dishes, dry the dishes, eat the dishes,

talk about the dishes.

You are noisy

in your sleep

and when you wake up

you are awake.

Yes is the word that speaks your name,

that speaks the body of your name,

your body’s name. It speaks the woman

left behind in the twentieth century,

deciding on the place of cutlery in the history

of the kitchen drawer.

Knives, assemble!

She closes the drawer on our open-mouthed other selves.

You said yes because you always said yes

locked outside your spoonself.

No is in the release

of the tip of the tongue

currently stuck to the roof of your mouth.

Did you say yes?

Or did they hear what they wanted to hear

in the din

the scraping of the plates,

the clamouring of cups,

the high pitched screaming

of the forks.

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