If you call it cutlery, let it cut

Reflective surface given power by flame.

Forged in a pit of hope, beaten

to elegant form.

Silver eager to mold- a spoon

if that’s what you need

a spoon here to please

Please, a powerful beginning.

Why a flattened start?

Pummeled on the anvil of servitude-

a hindsight bias,

she could have used in the fore

For a mix, a measure, a toss

a stir, or transfer- the spoon

can only crave what it has

dissolved. Silver seal Spoon’s surface from her

guts of wood

Would she need aspiration, I’ll give her

an aim. Spoons sit pretty

in their drawer, camouflaged

by other silver- not distinct.

You need someone, Silver Spoon.

Your purpose- is not your own.

I Don’t Need Nicotine Patches, I Smoke Cigarettes

Images of a Swamp Willow weigh me down

Statue my presence, petrify my face

Perhaps the monster’s toothed margin

its scattered warts on its alabaster belly

spare my fear a touch.

For its tentacles that root it still,

terrorize me the most.

The hush is almost tranquil, noiselessness

serves a calm but the tick

of time crescendos ‘til I crack

My little keepsake pattern,

always biting at my heels.