Spoon Love
'I want to give you spoon love...'
I whisper this to you, half-asleep,
and you roll to one side. You know
what I mean. You embrace me
as your envelope.
It's more than an arm around you:
It's the transformation of a body
into a hand to hold you, tender
as the heart that holds you,
tender as one
hand holding another
snug in a pocket of blankets.
To do it, I turn my legs
into an armchair
and you melt, warm,
asleep, you breathe
naturally, your heart
beats its resting rate and then,
on my thigh, I feel a movement of air.
And I don't care.
'God I love him,' I think.
It's more than the form of the
spoon, spoon love.
It's the how--beyond
the what--of holding.
In a spoon you can be as you are.
You can be messy, imperfect;
you can even be undefined.
You can rest in me.
I want to give you
spoon love,
ladle love,
whole pot love.
Written for my husband, Rainier Andrés Pereira.
Late May, 2019, Buenos Aires.