Julia Azzouz, Copy Editor

In the child’s mouth, my favorite spoon silvers.
Where the metal meets the mass,
the tongue touches that true temptation,
the phantom trace of starvation.
Under plates of flesh lie plates of metal,
Mirrors personified as placid static.
The amputated mind plants a feast,
a poncy aegis for a placated beast.
Am I a mother or a rival
to the slight babe carving the meat?
The meal begun where it ended
Where there is nothing for me to eat.