There are no forks or knives. They disappear too quick,
broken on frozen bread or a tough piece of macaroni,
caught by the blades of the garbage disposal and castrated,
or let go like rabid dogs
after they have tasted blood.
Only spoons remain,
nestled deep within each other,
never letting go.

I stole your last clean teaspoon
before I left. I waved it in front of your face
to make sure that you were still breathing
and to catch your reflection,
so I can take it out and look at you
when I'm lonely. And when you're lonely,
you can eat peanut butter
out of the one I used to stir my tea.
My lip prints should still taste like Earl Grey
and one percent milk.