The Spoon

You used to tap, tap
your teeth
with this very
while eating
in our dead-calm
silent dining room.

It’s night, the moon
is out. I scrub, scrub
the spoons’
silver face,
then hurl it back
into its place;
I slam the drawer.
The glasses shiver.

editors note:

Cleanliness is next to raw remembrance. (With this submission, we welcome Tricia to the raucous ranks of our crazy congress of Contributing Poets. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out!) – mh clay

Leave a Reply