The Spoons

We all look the same. 

Sleek. Silver. Useful. Tame.

Allison has been dropped,

kicked, sat in, licked, mopped.

Marie was accidentally bitten…

From the way that it stopped. She was suddenly tossed—

as though it was her fault. We keep telling her it’s not.  

Florentina has been in many kinds of ice cream

and now she feels cold and soft.

One of us stays permanently in a jar.             

Clumps of sugar stick to her and harden like tar.

Her shape is like that of a garden.

Wild and then hacked.

The surplus is snatched and she is suddenly smooth

and somehow more lonely

in all that space —every hour of window-light.

It is only chance that we are not in her place

enduring the night— 

We all touch very intimately.

When Florentina slides into me she inhabits a shiver.

Marie and Alli both are variations of a whimper.  

My party story is that I was licked by a dog.

We see the forks and species of knives unpredictably at night.  

The knives give us no reason to believe that they are violent.

The forks are beautiful, tall and silent.

Sometimes one or two of us are taken out to stir the coffee and release

the tea.

A hot bath—

for a victimless morning

or a party.  

Those nights are when we see

small white children

who are gracelessly

tossed

into a black trap and discarded.

We’ve felt dread since the singing started.

Poem and photo by Indigo Gabriel.