by Jackie Lea Sommers & T.S. Eliot
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
And so have I.
Not enough spoons for a week like this one.
Not enough for this month, this year.
This is our unit of measurement,
or maybe Eliot himself,
the tired ones everywhere
who use the word chronic to describe
along both sides of the spine.
Feel the sweat drip
down the neck of a body that can’t cool.
The girl in the bed
She is like the night.
like a subwoofer
underneath the pale, freckled skin.
I could throw them from me like candy in a parade.
I was younger and in love with
Now I watch
for any glint of metal,
any strobe of silver,
for my collection of spoons,
the currency of this girl