Eva Griffin

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How to set a table

Arrange the knives to say:
good morning, my dry-lipped lover!

Gloves on, hold intentions
like limp hands above an overflowing

bowl of apples. Hips must be draped
in gingham, the apron suggesting

comfortable domesticity. Place
little white teacups on their little white saucers.

Delicate. You know how easy it is
to crack—call it a woman’s intuition.

Of course the plates must be empty
(the attempt rightfully in the bin).

The man will laugh and call you an idiot
because you tried to make breakfast.

Imagine, an anorexic with a talent
for abundance. Remember your mother

never taught you how to cook
though she did try. You were too busy

dipping a wet fingertip into the flour
making a secret of your tongue.

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EVA GRIFFIN lives in Dublin. Her pamphlets Fake Hands / Real Flowers (2020) and one last spin around the sun (2021) were published by Broken Sleep Books. Her poems have appeared in Poetry Ireland Review, PERVERSE, Abridged, Anthropocene and elsewhere.