The Spoon

Art by Eliza Williams

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.

We acknowledge the Ngunnawal and Ngambri people, who are the Traditional Custodians of the land on which Woroni, Woroni Radio and Woroni TV are created, edited, published, printed and distributed. We pay our respects to Elders past and present. We acknowledge that the name Woroni was taken from the Wadi Wadi Nation without permission, and we are striving to do better for future reconciliation.