I have an affinity for things that cannot hold my weight,
as if I crave to sit soundly in the bowl of a spoon.
It cannot be just any spoon, it would have to be
a silver spoon on a cloth napkin, at the table of a stranger—
but not just any stranger. It would have to be
a stranger I could love serenely.
But love from a stranger cannot be bought
without the proper currency;
it must be one that can hold its own weight.
Though this goes against my devices,
like the fruits that yield good fortune
by which I mean to say
the spoon that feeds love to a stranger
must be brought about by something
that has an affinity for good taste.
A piece of fruit, heavy in the bowl of a spoon
at the table of a stranger,
is unable to find an affinity for good taste,
static with ineptitude like the gift of serenity as a currency
glued to a cloth napkin and waiting
to lose what nags at the cusp of hunger.
Jessalyn Johnson is a writer living in Brooklyn, New York. She received a bachelor’s degree in English Literature from Grand Canyon University and currently attends The New School’s creative writing MFA program. Her work is featured in Maudlin House, Soft Cartel, and Barren Magazine, among others. Follow her on Twitter @jessalyn451 and Instagram @jessalynjohnson or visit her at jessalynjohnson.com
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