Keeper of Spoons.

Instead of a key ring I'll wear 
a lasso of spoons on my belt
to spurn on the vernal pools
of each concave in-cave
where tad pools play hopscotch 
with the skipped stones that
skidded three times in sauce.

Each one unlocks
my lips like a licorice rope
like a locket holding
a photo of alphabet soup
without any 'Q's to be found
there's never enough Qs.
Sip slow like sunburn.

Instead of a wedding ring I'll wear 
spoons by my nightlight.
Glisten like pearl glazed donuts
and escape through the whole
of my throat like the dying
of sugar-dandruff-stars
falling like Cheerios and Orions.