love in a spoon

they have a choice
but no one told them —
they could begin by loving
a spoon,
the way it dips in perfect symmetry
to cup a mound of oatmeal
or sweet red medicine
or soil from the garden,
the handle swelling in a flatness
a stainless steel teardrop
enclosed in a fist
as you jam it into a bucket of ice —
and this love could begin to creep
into other objects —
a piece of driftwood on the beach
all the heaviness sucked out of it,
a stone that the earth has made
perfectly smooth
in all its bending
its perfect closure,
a gold tulip in the snow —
this love gets closer and closer
to the living
to the miracle of a cat’s whisker
the grip in a baby’s tiny fingers
her small cottonball face
absorbing voices and fans and moving blond hair
small hands grabbing
at nothing
and from here it’s possible to love
things that are not as easy to love —
old women complaining
about being alive
hard black shit cramming their bodies
from the black holes in their eyes
to their clenched sphincters —
this is possible
this can be done
it’s even possible
to love your dead rhythm husband
to love the thing that looks at you
from the mirror
with all its grey sagging death
its granite scars
its empty eyes
its bleeding eyes
its hopelessly neuter eyes
behind layers of mascara —
but these options aren’t publicized
and by the time a woman
is in her forties
sitting in a booth
trying to hold her face up
she’s forgotten how she loved
that first sterling silver baby spoon
the taste of gerber’s vegetables and bacon
and she doesn’t know how to love
the spoon that she uses
to thoughtlessly stir
sweet and low
into her cup of decaffeinated coffee

wendy shaffer

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One thought on “love in a spoon

  1. Ritesh (Ryan) says:

    A nice thought ………Ritesh(Ryan)
    ritesh.shirolla@gmail.com

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