it’s not the way you walk
it’s not the way you talk
it’s the way
that you wield
a spork

queenly exponent
of hybrid cutlery
you make my stomach
utterly
fluttery

one minute,
your pronging
fills me with longing

the next,
you scoop to conquer

it’s driving me bonquers

elegant elision,
practised precision,
your spork
lights the spark
in my heart