The Future is a Spoon by Sarah T. Jewell My face looks upside down in the curve of it. I sit on a train backwards, I look out the window as the world flashes red. I don’t know where I am going, I miss my home, now as small as a bug. I don’t use the spoon to stir my coffee, mixing the brown and white. I don’t crack an egg with the rim of it. I focus on the metal of the spoon, willing it to wilt, to melt with the power of my thoughts. I want it to droop like the head of an old rose. The spoon stays solid and inscrutable. The present is a fork and I bite into the moment. The past is a knife, it cuts into me. Scoop out the brains of the monkey, calls the spoon, this is a delicacy. As I taste them, the prions warp my mind into a new shape.