Maybe it's the glimmering, the doppelganger that hangs in the oval, the concavity.
The way you can't help but smile with a spoon in your mouth
or the way they make a fairy ring on a round table, like toadstools following a rainstorm.
Maybe it's the precision of the handle, suggesting a bowl of soup is as delicate as surgery.
It brings to mind our fascination with appearances, the perceived obscenity of a woman's belly, burgeoning & convex, outhrust & shining, a gravid uterus.
If you balance a spoon on its edge, it appears to ask a question.
Have you had your fill today? Will you consume the pulp of a lemon, a bowl of rice?
What quantum force tugs them from their drawer, makes them turn up tucked behind a picture frame on the mantel, or half-buried in the flowerbed? Where are they going? Why don't they stay put, each one gently curved into the next, like a polyamorous lovers?
When they return, their cheeks are cool, unfevered. Sometimes they are dirty.
They are done with me. Sometimes they don't come back.
The New February flock of Thirteen Myna Birds!
14 hours ago