It cups the custard, cradles the noodle.
I use it even when I don’t have to,
scoop under, then lift too too big a bite
to the need of my open mouth
which too for a moment becomes a spoon:
my tongue a curved wet shaving of want,
vehicle delivering a soupçon of what’s good
to all my yearning middle. Too,
some nights in a square of moonlight you
and I lie gleaming on our sides in bed
like silver in a drawer: discrete and neck to
neck, handle to handle, bowl to tiny bowl
brim full of just that bit which we can hold

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