““Utensil While feasting On venison stew After we buried my mother, I recognized my spoon And realized my family Had been using it For at least forty-two years. How does one commemorate The ordinary? I thanked The spoon for being a spoon And finished my stew. How does one get through A difficult time? How does A son properly mourn his mother? It helps to run the errands-- To get shit done. I washed That spoon, dried it, And put it back In the drawer, But I did it consciously, Paying attention To my hands, my wrists, And the feel of steel Against my fingertips. Then my wife drove us back Home to Seattle, where I wrote This poem about ordinary Grief. Thank you, poem, For being a poem. Thank you, Paper and ink, for being paper And ink. Thank you, desk, For being a desk. Thank you, Mother, for being my mother. Thank you for your imperfect love. It almost worked. It mostly worked. Or partly worked. It was almost enough.””
