liturgy of spoons

A wild flower flickered in the Monkey King's palm—small as proof, loud as a crown He taught it tricks of wind and riddle-speech, to cart the dusk and tumble kingdoms down Its petals rewrote maps: veins as poems, each fold a compass that makes old borders frown So from that stubborn bloom a new legend grew, stitching history to song and earning its own renown

At dusk the Monkey King cupped the bloom like lantern-light for vanished vows, Each petal exhaled a roster of ruins, names folded into the hush of boughs, It remembers our names, soft as ash, murmured into the river's slow mouth, Farms unlatched their memories; the moon stitched back the silhouettes of towns, It remembers our names, a reed-song passing under bridges and through crowns, The flower—

The flower exhaled a low, rocking hush that braided night into a mother's coil, Petals unspooled lull and ledger both, naming hearths until the smoke forgot its hurry, Lanterns bobbed like slow-heart answers; each name folded into the palm of sleep, The Monkey King's thumb kept the beat, patient as moon-breath, coaxing cities soft and small.

A petal unbuttoned like a pocket into another city, where afternoon walked upside down, Small moons hawked time in paper cups and teaspoons traded the names of lonely shutters, Lanterns grew legs and spilled their light into coat-pockets; bridges hummed with combed glass, The Monkey King grinned and folded constellations like maps, tucking rooftops into the bloom.

He pinched the petal; the city hiccuped into marbles and rolled, roofs rattling down alleyways with delighted clatter, Lanterns sprouted pogo-sticks and hopped their light from stoop to stew-pot, scattering evening like popcorn, Postmen handed out yesterdays as prizes; quarrels unstitched themselves into practical jokes and pigeons filed absurd claims, The bloom winked—laws folded into paper-crane

The paper-crane softened into a napkin of mercy, ironing wrinkles from the law and mending a widow's bowl, Marbles rolled into porches and into lullabied pockets; lovers folded rooftops into small sealed promises, The Monkey King's grin thinned into a patient hush; he set the bloom between two humming cups and let tea remember names, Houses leaned open as if to exhale, quarrels returning as bread—

The street learned to keep time like a ladle, clinking names into the city pot, Neighbors lined up syllables — aunt, brother, market, moon — ladle by ladle, a steady litany, The Monkey King nodded; the bloom hummed a kitchen hymn, folding old grudges into the simmer, By spoonlight they ate apologies; every mouthful spelled peace until the smoke itself became a chorus.

At dawn the city set its bowls to prayer; spoons kept tempo like quiet bell-rings in proving palms, Each clink ladled mercy, turning old rackets into warm broth and seasoning the air with small absolutions, The bloom closed like a ledger, petals folded into a single seed that hummed every reclaimed name, The Monkey King slipped it beneath his cloak; the streets exhaled together, smoke gone, and at