the hidden kept

I pack a spoon
in my daughter’s lunch.
Then another,
in case the first
should disappear.

Love misplaces things.
I try to preempt the loss.

When a line begins
to murmur
I swing it by the neck—
a soft animal
I mistake for a rope.

I call it poem,
but it writhes,
wants teeth,
wants blood,
won’t feed me
when the guards come.

Just stands there,
quiet and damp,
like something I’ve left
in the sun too long,

then tried to water.

Now my throat closes.
Words spin.

No one comes
with a towel,
no one checks the floor
for shards.

She may find the spoon.
Or this one beneath it—
the one I mean to hide,
a love for when
forgetting comes.

*

This poem recently appeared in the spring edition of MUSE Literary Journal.