Being Bardi

I put the silverware away.
each in their own place..
spoons there
salad forks there
knives there,

that is, the civilised knives
that cut the salmon in small pieces
so that I can slide them into the salad
as
I would slide myself into you
as
you have slid into my heart

even though for now
there is a stillness;
the only sound the small,
bright, domestic clicking as
the spoons slip into each other.

Glistening like lake surface
or lust, the uncivilised knives
gleam and wait their turn.