How Many Spoonsful

for Tracy

The heritage of spoon life is selfless. Pinch of control. Drops of gratitude.
Recipes lost, recreated. Sugar bowl broken. But hold the filigree
between three fingers as witness to the low places rubbed tenderly

with repeated use. Middles revealing favorite

spoon. Not straw. Not knife. Not pencil. Hollow shaped to baby’s early palate.
Cupped hand feeding heart and medicine. Nest.

Morsels. Head on straight. Body tapering to obligation, to waist and silver flare
of hand picked dress. Necklace fleur de lis and necessary scoop of chicken soup.
Teaspoon of anxious soothed with thick, sticky honey.

History of food fights settle in this slingshot. Instrument and measure, these utensils

we pull from the shadowy bottom drawer. Patient is this tea bag rest after hours upright working. This spoon and all its forever conversation is yours now.

Spooning up a brand new decade. Old things and shiny replacements. Song in spoon. Dance tune. Still life of plant with seed pods resembling silver dollars, the timeless silhouette of your mother’s hair.

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