Affection for Spoons

for Katy E. Ellis, Jr.

I think of spoons when I am shoveling our driveway,
pitching snow over my shoulder, some of it landing
in the neighbours yard, but I dont pay any attention
because I am thinking of spoons filled with soup.

Spoons filled with my grandmas borscht.  Im thinking
of spoons in the snowy morning filled with Irish stew.
Thinking of four level tablespoons of French Roast,
thinking of a teaspoon full of pure Buckwheat honey.  

I think of spoons when I am alone in bed, 
no other body, to bend toward my own, 
no other body loving me with the shape of spoon,
shape of love and affection, through the night.  

Spoons emptied, the moon shape of them
in the hand, the glint of spoons raised in the air,
the sound of the spoons against the knee,
the rhythm of spoons in song, even empty sounding full.

I think of spoons when I see his truck, the metallic
glint of it reminds me of shiny dessert spoons
filled with something sweet, sweet as a kiss,
sliding into the mouth, cradle of the tongue.  

Spoons collected by my friend, Katy, assortment
on her end table by her bed.  Black wooden spoon 
with white polka dots, silver spoons bent at odd angles, 
spoons from Africa and Asia looking like hollowed palms.

I think of spoons when Im sick, dream of them 
filled with Buckleys cough syrup, wake-up 
with my lips dry and chapped, my tongue
scooped waiting for two teaspoons of medicine.

Spoons of all different shapes and sizes.  Spoons
for iced tea, long and lean with small crescent moons.
Spoons for grapefruit, dessert, soup, spoons for cappuccino,
which are small and fit into the well of the hand.

I think of spoons for stirring stew and soup, the ladle
and its thick neck and abundant scoop.  I think,
of the wooden spoon, the spank and paddle,
the cake and icing, the lard and flour, the hand and handle.

Spoons fill the night sky, big and little dippers.  Spoons,
which beckon children to fall on snow, grass and autumn leaves
and search the air for mythical ladles, for pieced together
scoops marked by sparks of light against cobalt darkness.

I think of spoons when I think of him and imagine
domestic bliss, spooned wedding rings, circular cakes
and desires, the round spoon of eggs moving through 
my body, the spoon of my desire for more than this.

© Heather Simeney MacLeod