Spoils (of) My elbows root a new kitchen table to my chin. My eyes, brief peonies, scatter across the last two years: hours bunch around you--ridge or valley,eclipse: no lonesome quota of good booksor aged teas can quite silver pastyour shoulders, your stone-ground coffee, the gentle shake of your handsplunging the French press and rarely spilling. No matter howthick I corded the dig of my heels,you slid away. My wish just tin foilover a dish we swung around in meticulous jibebut forgot to write a recipe for. My wish, the tinfoil: cragged backtalk to the tink of the refrigeratorlight bulb. Nothing keeps forever. Jessica Morey-Collins is learning to observe her mind in Taipei, Taiwan. Her poems can be found in Poetry Quarterly, The Literary Bohemian, The Wild Lemon Project, Cordite, Tin Canonn and elsewhere.