Spoons in Mid-air

I will not write of her thinning arms, 

of the slowness of spoons, and I ride
every spoon, singing her mouth to open,

I will of her dancing, the jig that
she does when she preens with a dress
on days when aches stay longer in bed,


her fingers fumble inside her large bag
for pills, I see the breathing in her brows,
but she picks a smile from her bag to wear,

she has a cache of smiles in her bag,
fat and fleshy and shrieks at the scale
is the vogue I prefer to see on her,

Each spoon is a movie started and slow,
I watch each spoon moving in mid-air,
feeding her mouth engorges my heart.