e fought over kitchen utensils the night you left Davenport and me. They’re mine, we said, but we bought them together. The box sat in the basement. Three plastic spoons with melted ends. A ladle, stained by your lamb curry. Spiders spun webs between the whisk and the salad tongs. Still I didn’t touch them in case you would come back and make teriyaki. But yesterday the rain sheets were so solid I could pin them to the clothesline. The utensils floated upstairs, I pulled open the door. I hope they find you. It’s your turn to keep them now.
by Bailey Lewis