Benjamin Gunsberg

Spoon

            Non fui, fui, non sum, non curo

                                                —Epicurean epitaph

The knife never sweetened a mug

nor cradled a steaming egg, never

scooped mousse nor cantaloupe ripe

with hallelujahs. The soft world

welcomes you like lips

welcome cream. No fight ends

with your bite because you bear

no teeth. No need for a sheath.

No war began by invoking your name,

which rhymes with moon. No fear

as I pass you to my young niece.

You slip my tongue, so I clack you

against my knee, sing “Old Joe Clark.”

Dishrag loves you. Soap loves you

three at a time. You stir fresh

mint into water, ice, and sugar,

soothe my daughter when she falls

face down in the dirt. You draw

broth from a boiling vat and snap

because plastic cools too soon,

drop cornmeal onto greased griddles

then relax coated in mush. All afternoon

coated in mush. Washed and propped

upright on the drying rack you throw

light across the kitchen. At night

you toss salad until slick with oil

and vinegar, flecked with parsley.

Innocent with bisque.

Innocent with cocoa and salt,

brown into white. Dust into dust,

your bowl delights because pleasure

is good, pain evil.  Isn’t that right,

my bright, little hedonist?

Though you tarnish, though you bend,

once deprived of sentience,

the end means nothing.