by Elizabeth Manuel

It was because of the spatula she left him.
It was squash orange and ugly.
The object of his desire.

He would hang saucepans and stainless steel spoons
On the walls with affection,
Breathe on them and tenderly wipe them clear.

She bought a new dress, modelled it for him.
He glanced up, muttered ‘very nice’
And cradled the electric whisk.

One day she took the spatula, scraped mud of her boot
And he caught her at it.
He told her he just couldn’t trust her anymore.

While he was cooking himself a steak in the non-stick,
She packed her clothes and boots.
It was because of the spatula that she left him.