Imagine a spoon. It is flat in the parts that should have slant. And it scoops you out as though you are melon. There is a pluck of memory. A reminder of saffron laugh and sofrito tap of tongue against phone. What are you reading. Are you married now. How many babies have been birthed since that time. Do not mention railroad track and lift of cotton over belly-button. Only mention lenguaje viajado del alma. Do not go back to pinot grigio and evening dip of toes into drunk grass stains. Only mention una meditacion de pulmones y otoño. Envision skin. Behind cartilage of flesh, gather sonido agotado.