Poems Spoon V. 3

Two bodies folded and creased
like an accordion in a cuddle.
One face open, the other niched in
the nape of a neck, a nest to nestle.

A display of our vacations dangles
by nails above the kitchen sink. I drag
my hand across them. They swing and sing out
jingles like wind chimes ringing reflections.

My mother polishes the oldest ones,
scrubbing the russet tarnish,
lifting each one to the light in a test
of gleams, and she spins the thin handles
so the concave cups a scoop of quick sparks
like a hand full of stars, little dippers.