Spooning

 by Miranda Yeo

Spoons fit perfectly;

that’s why it’s called spooning,

he said

His words danced along my earlobe

and I laughed their tickling away

as we tangled in soft sheets and

cradled in morning light

I burrowed into the c-shape of his body

and nestled the nape of my neck

where it sat soundly on his arm

And listened to the rise and fall of his chest,

pressed against my back

But spoons are cheap metal

and metals tarnish,

even stainless steel

rusts

if it’s given time

We are knotted elbows and knees

Jostling between fitful naps,

my shoulder rammed into

the crook of his armpit

His fist an intruder

under my soft belly

We wake to aching necks,

Pins-and-needles and sweaty backs,

betraying

careful pretense of comfort