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Spoon
Think of all the men you’ve fallen in
love with all their hands all their fingers splayed open
on the table that moment they reach for the warm
cup of coffee how it’s not the hand whose fingers
curl into the handle stiff sitting and settling into
the weight
and commitment of the cream,
sugar, spoon with its little mocha pool (once
it’s stirred) beside the placemat no not that hand
that seems the leading hand but the other one
the one that cups the cup that braces it before
it’s all lips and tongues before it’s all
sssssssst and eyes the lids are hoods now
that look out over the rim
remember? How you still
keep the edge of that left hand (it’s warm isn’t it) imagine how oh
how you imagine warm imagine you remember I know
you do being warmed by that hand
your shoulder the curve of your elbow the curve
of your breast (just his finger-
tip) the curve of your back (the whole hand)
curve of your hip (yes) the curve of your thigh (yes) your calf your ankle your
heel imagine relaxing
letting yourself come on into it without coming away
with a poppy of a bruise (it’s too soon but you go
there right away I know you do just like I know it’s only
a cup of coffee and he’s setting it back down
empty and gathering his things and leaving
he’s the first man he’s all the men you ever
fall in love with but never touch ever as if
what the first man said
came true
when you were seven
when he gripped you getting into you gritting his teeth
(who, precious thing (his breath was shit)
will ever believe you ) and he pulls
his thumb out and sucks it dry
and you fall away or rather just off
like skin sun burnt red red red for days
of dry pain before its lifted it comes away
milky as clear wet varnish the cowl of your hymen
in lacy shreds he rubs on his fingers he stirs into
the hot coffee stirs and stirs
and then licks and sips, never once asking
for a spoon.
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