There is a Fork in Copenhagen who says:
'I, Fork, will pierce the surface of this meat below me, will separate the fibers, will find purchase in the tense and threaded weave of the muscle, and allow a Hand to pull it from this plate to an open mouth.
'I, Fork, sit patiently beside the dinner plate, and wait for the Lord to be thanked.
'I, Fork, am miserable when left secluded in a drawer with nothing but other utensils. There is the prickle of longing in each tine, an urge for the warmth of gripping fingers in my rounded handle. I want to spear, to run through corporeal matter.'"
There is a boy who is the last of seven children. He is a fork, and he sticks and he sticks and he sticks.