ARTWORK: Eliza Williams
The Spoon Eli Narev This afternoon at half-past three I saw myself as I made tea Through the bright, distinctive bend Of a coffee spoon’s back end. The word I use is not ‘reflection’ Rather some kind of projection Of a person yet to blossom Like a cracking boll of cotton. Grinning, silver-gilded through The cutlery— as spectres do— Appeared myself at fifty-five Devoid of life but quite alive. My contemporary body (The corporeal and un-contorted) Shuddered at the impure image Of this frightful, fated visage. Why should I start, if such a face Would— in two scores— be commonplace? Has he not lived my lives foreseen? Do I not yearn for where he’s been? Through the flatware, our fates merging All his history’s roads diverging Avenues of self-expression, Glamour; lust— tasteful obsession. I marvelled at his paths’ pearlescence All potential gains and lessons Before me, slews of selves refracting To prismatic smithereens. Perhaps I would be better suited To a life seated and suited. Thoughts on tap but thinking muted— Madcap dreams left spayed and neutered.
31.
