Stirring:
The sad separation of a woman and her spoon
So, you took the wood-handled spoon.
The heavy one, with a shallow scoop,
its handle smooth and brass-strapped
like a schooner's boom and brightwork.
It sailed through choppy cookie doughs
with ease.
Though it was yours to take, plundered
from the galley of that damp, creaky
apartment where I loved, for the first time,
blue eyes and freckled shoulders, if not
the American flag curtains and hairy bathroom,
here in my new place with the clean kitchen
where I mix better cookies for a better
man, I miss that spoon.
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