spoon
I was born, into a spoon. The bowl holds my name. I was spooned by a man, as he let go his body. Gender and choice mean I dollop myself. I am supposed to notice when I run out. I smile to myself and load the dishwasher. A small metal container offers a gentle dust of cinnamon over rice pudding. Nana hands me a worn metal spoon, with a deep grooved handle. Gifted a spoon. Spooned. Out of spoons. Alone with memory.