05-21-2014, 08:30 PM
Hello, this is the first poem I'm posting here. I'm not fragile, so have at it. I've been working on it for the past two nights.
A Spoon
A hand grabs a spoon from the drawer—an act so inconspicuous the brain commands it without notice.
Two eyes busy their vision elsewhere. The hand knows well enough the what-to-do and the where-to-go of it: Two falls ago a map was committed to memory and burned with the leaves.
It is a spoon of considerable heft, unlike the flimsy tools that the hand has come to expect would come from this drawer in particular, which it must be said does maintain a sense of humility about itself, giving only what it was given.
The brain awakens to its experience, the fingers probe at lines engraved in the handle, the eyes come along to see what is in the hand.
And the signals connect, synapses spark in the brain—This spoon belongs to E____.
E____, you left this spoon in the sink one night. You left it, forgetting it then and forgetting it ever since. You left it, as a non-thing, unworthy of awareness or reflection. You left it, nihilated by your apathy.
Yet, the brain can no longer unfix itself. Not a spoon, E____’s spoon— . . . the elucidation of meaning.
A phone lights up and dances ecstatic off the edge of the coffee table.
A Spoon
A hand grabs a spoon from the drawer—an act so inconspicuous the brain commands it without notice.
Two eyes busy their vision elsewhere. The hand knows well enough the what-to-do and the where-to-go of it: Two falls ago a map was committed to memory and burned with the leaves.
It is a spoon of considerable heft, unlike the flimsy tools that the hand has come to expect would come from this drawer in particular, which it must be said does maintain a sense of humility about itself, giving only what it was given.
The brain awakens to its experience, the fingers probe at lines engraved in the handle, the eyes come along to see what is in the hand.
And the signals connect, synapses spark in the brain—This spoon belongs to E____.
E____, you left this spoon in the sink one night. You left it, forgetting it then and forgetting it ever since. You left it, as a non-thing, unworthy of awareness or reflection. You left it, nihilated by your apathy.
Yet, the brain can no longer unfix itself. Not a spoon, E____’s spoon— . . . the elucidation of meaning.
A phone lights up and dances ecstatic off the edge of the coffee table.