My father always ate with the large fork.
that fork is discomforting for my small hands,
but it perfectly fits his rugged hands.

My mother and I always ate with the small forks.
Our hands were small, delicate.
But it perfectly fits our tender hands.

The utensils were always separated,
little cupboards and drawers,
although all the forks went to the same drawer.

As I set the table for tonight’s meal,
there was no small fork left for me.
Awkwardly, I ate in stillness with the large fork.
In this miniature, blank, dwelling.