A spoon goes in the lunchbox and does not come back.
A spoon falls behind the couch and does not come back.
And although I washed spoons, day after day, I never noticed their slow disappearance.
For all I can think now, I may as well have rinsed them out of existence
And filled the little basket on the dish rack with suds that dissolved like some promises.
One day, I looked and counted only two in the drawer, although we number three.
As I drove to work, I considered whether the problem was spiritual or psychological.
I discovered a discipline which regards the loss of spoons and other utensils
As “keyholes” to the ‘Yet And Never” the broken hearted peer through.
Your object is caught in a veil of sadness
You will know because every meal tastes of
Then, the spoon has crossed over from the
drawer to the DRAWER,
Which is merely a metaphor humans use to
apprehend the Divine.
I considered whether I hid them from myself, which both
My therapist and the woman who reads my cards
Ignored in favor of suggesting discount outlets where I could buy more.
Lucid dreams failed when I woke in them so tired I saw my dream-self fall asleep.
Then, one day, another spoon disappeared so I went to WalMart
Where I spent 1.50 for six teaspoons, 1.50 for six tablespoons, 3.24 cents, total.
But, they are not like our old spoons.
Our old spoons’ heft declared mine a home with spoons.
These— you could not dig out of your cell with one or make a shiv.
Yet, despite the differences between the old and the new,
The language of spoons has only one word that all spoons speak.
In English, we say, meagerly, ‘spoon,’
But in spoon, it refers more precisely to the hunger that completes us,
And its companion, the hunger, that sated, wants more.
The day I brought them home we ate ice cream in silence,
Each with a spoon of our own.