Marrow Spoon

I read there is a small
silver spoon whose sole
purpose is to plunge

into the depths of a bone
that’s been boiled for supper
and thereby extricate for you

the wobbly column of marrow—
It looks something of a cross
between a miniature spade and

half of a bird’s long beak,
and guarantees that every part
of the animal can be consumed.

How thoughtful of the silver-
smith to add such an implement
to the set: to have prescience

of things we’ll need even before
they become needs, to be so sure
desire will want to go that

far. Does anyone still sell
hooks and eyes, those tiny
pairs of shaped wire pulled

into assistance when buttons
and snaps and zippers aren’t
enough? When I was eight,

a doctor declared one of my
legs shorter than the other,
insisting my parents take me

for a fitting, for a pair
of ugly orthopedic shoes.
At the shoemaker’s, we looked

around at all the prosthetic
legs with leather platforms;
their metal braces, the smell

of something sad limping around
the room. My father turned on
his heel and we followed.

An inch, a half an inch: nothing,
he believed, that a regular diet
of bone broth couldn’t fix.

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