Spoon Poems

Spoon (v. 1)

A tiny oar, a mirror, the sugar shovel.

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

A display of every vacation dangles
by nails above the kitchen sink.
I drag my hand across them. They swing
and sing out jingles like wind chimes,
the sound of reflections in a blur.

A miniature bowl on the end of a stick,
it is the only device at the dinner table
that won't injure, but scoop and harbor.

Mother polishes the oldest ones,
erasing the sepia of tarnish,
holding each one up to the light,
testing its gleams, spinning the handle
several times so the concave holds a shine
for a moment like two hands
cupping water to a mouth.