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The Spoon Philosophizes

The spoon meditates on the soup.
The spoon feels warm regard for the stew.
It relies on the oats
for a sense of purpose and self-respect.

See how the spoon preens,
reflected in the clear shining surface of broth.

The spoon considers itself more dutiful,
adaptable and even more versatile than
the knife or fork (supporting players).
After all, what talent can there be
in poking at something?

Anyone can pierce with unkind
tine or pointed remark.
To spoon is to cuddle, to scoop,
caress, take, smooch, lift up, love.

The spoon dresses in silver
and goes out on the town, confident
in its universal reception.

Everywhere it travels, it boasts
of its ancestors—the abalone shell,
carved elk horn, chard of pottery,
splinter of knotted wood.

Spooning a swirl of noodles,
the spoon swoons from the heat,
but never lets on.

The spoon’s heart was once broken
by a callous gravy boat,
yet its philosophy remains steadfast:
every swallow is a dance,
equilibrium is all.



Not the jasmine disrobing on the sidewalk

Not a rose flinging off the sweetest petals
to crumble under grass

Not the wind ruffling the hay bales to steal
a trace of waning summer

But the way the sea imprints only a briny voice
in the shell

Or a honeybee without the sense of smell
loses all compass, can no longer distinguish

forget-me-not from thyme    

I am a dog sniffing the ground for spoor,
proof of prior inhabitants

From two miles away, a wolf can detect a trail

What markings do we leave as we rub
against tree bark and rock  and when we do
who can follow

Observe my careful origami      I fold
           and fold    and fold
           the pillowcase

the scent of you        escaping  


Candace Pearson’s book Hour of Unfolding won the 2010 Liam Rector First Book Prize for Poetry from Longwood University.