Burnt Spoon

This was fun to write. For inspiration, I took words and phrases from a magazine as a start. I reworked them into a sensible-surrealist story-poem.

Burnt Spoon

She’s had enough of alleyways,
Needles, burnt spoons, and dumpster dives;
She changes after reading a page,
Yellow, half-burnt, from Plutarch’s Lives.

She wants to find herself, so she
Sticks grass and twigs inside her mouth
And takes a Costco big-screen box,
Labels it, and ships herself south

To Tijuana, where she winds
Up on the shelf by honey jars,
Plastic figurines and sombreros
Transplanted to the rental cars

Where mercury in globules rolls
Along the carpet floor and falls
To streets she strolls at night before
She takes her place on the shelf at dawn.

A Pakistani sailor buys
Her, squeezes her inside his bag,
Which holds a donkey piñata,
Burnt spoons, red liquor, and a flag.

While on his ship he lets her look
Down at the ever-growing sharks.
The couple gulp their beer at dusk,
And she crafts plans to disembark.


Red liquid oozes under her door
As his poisoned liquor spills,
She kicks a crystal radio
And with her smiles, wiles, and killer

Luck, a flying squirrel replies
And takes her to his lair of nuts
Where birds call in code, a winter’s tale
In Denmark told by an idiot

Where hounds and hawks have hacked the jury
When she is tried for her euphoria.
She escapes to wear a red dress
At a greasy spoon in Peoria

Where a well-groomed man in suit and hat
Sits next to her, gun to her gut,
And her probation officer
Sits across, calling her a slut.

The busboy has ignored all three,
Collects the tub of mugs and plates,
Pulls a burnt spoon, hands it to her,
So she checks her spam and takes a break,

Removes the screen, climbs out the window,
Climbs a beanstalk to the nearest stars,
Spins burnt spoons to the blackest space
And cradles a baby in her arms.


~Day Williams