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Spoon Fed

Poetry & Prose | November 9, 2015

I was there holding a coffee just like someone always had been. Thinking about cycles and motorcycles, recycling my feelings back at the Cycladic Museum, realizing nothing is new. I take my coffee like my mother takes her coffee and probably like her mother but who’s to know.

The spoon between my teeth reminded me of your teeth and the tiny little gap that you can whistle through. And about Spoon Theory where we each only have so many spoons but our exchange rates are vastly different. And my teeth are crooked now but it only bothers me when I dream about it, which I do often. But I can’t imagine…

My teeth have been cemented and shaved and pulled and shoved and polished to the point where they would not recognize themselves. I have served as a poster child for the power of corrective teething programs. When they find my skull years from now they will look at my teeth as post-Cycladic, post-industrial, post-modern.

The Cycladic Museum had an exhibit on death but I try not to be exhibitionist. Still I walked among all these tiny offerings shaped like tiny humans and they stared back at me from behind their glass and their historical labels. I looked back at them like what if humans used to look like this? What if our features used to be blurrier and our arms too long and our heads too big and our skin made out of stone?

It is miles away but I want to go to my dining hall and steal every fucking spoon so my mother can stop stirring her coffee with knives and forks and straws. It is a world of plenty for spoons there and I want to make earrings and necklaces and chainmail out of spoons, to build a castle out of spoons the way I used to think the tooth fairy made a castle out of teeth. Because I keep finding spoons in my pockets and shoes and pillowcases the way I used to find baby teeth.