I hold my fork at an angle that's deliberately anti-gravity, an aerial articulation of my status; strata; class.
It's an elegance I inherited, like a title or a medal, though I understand the need for it, that thrice daily parade.
You hold your fork like a shovel, the clawing grasp of a beggar; mine tips like the beak of an eagle, a slim-fingered enchanté.
While my hand’s that of divinity, yours is the paw of a mongrel. You scoop your soup, your mushy peas, your ugly blocks of cereal,
while mine flies overhead as a private jet does a hovel, a bridge does a pissy streamlet, a dancer's leg does the barre.
O my clever fork plucks morsels, but also proves my level, shows yours by acting opposite, keeps order with its prongs.
Dogitha was raised in Kenilworth, Pennsylvania, but now lives in London. She has performed her work at many socialist, anarchist and feminist events, and is currently working towards her first collection, Houndstooth.