diary of a spoon thief

goodbye teeth. goodbye window.
i crawled out onto the roof with you
& we took turns chomping bites 
off each other's legs. you pointed to my face 
& told me all you saw was a dinner plate.
there was the last summer when 
i knew i didn't want to sleep next to you anymore.
your legs were dogs. your mouth was
a grotto of cave fish. i tried to free them
while you slept. i stuck my hands in
& captured thrashing beasts. then, alone,
in your parents' kitchen, i stole the spoons
one at a time. i buried some in the yard.
i swallowed others. then, one & only one
i kept for myself. i still have it & i use it
for witchcraft. it sticks, wax-laden, out of
my bowl of black salt. when i use it
i think of cups of espresso & the smell
of fried egg. there was a time when we feasted
on lobster. red shells. butter. ghosts.
that was the last time i ate meat. those creatures
telling me, "get out. get out." if you are 
ravenous enough to get free
you can dig with only a spoon. you can
cull the black eyes of crustaceans for a glimpse
of their other planet where no one has gender.
where love is not a game of who sleeps
closest to the cutting board. my old love,
let's not pretend you don't still search
for those spoons. i like to imagine you 
digging in the yard & finding one. then,
thinking of a night you put me 
in the closet & laughed until you turned
into a bird. beat your angry wings against 
every wall while i wept. i hope you
rebury the spoon & speak of it to no one.