When’s a fork a spoon
or a spoon a fork, little
tines stinging out at the end?
Weird and not right but
handy, she insisted. And runcible,
good, long-lived. The owl,
the pussycat—you know that poem—
out to sea in a beautiful boat
by a small guitar, my love
and the rest of it … But a spoon
with those straightaway thorns. A fork
flooding up to the brim. Next
they’ll razor the edge and call it
knife. What to cut then?
Once a tongue and a mouth.
And anything you gave it.