Of silverware, you are the pacifist,
never stabbing, never slicing,
content in fact to simply scoop.
Your curves, unashamed,
slip silently between the lips
of all who pick you up, and yet
you are never called a whore;
one repentant cycle through
the dishwasher,and you are pure
again, and ready for the hiding
place, the drawer full of brothers,
sisters, ornate and shiny-slick.