Eurydice and the porridge pot

Eurydice and the porridge pot

I pinch my nose and start
my wading through the amber murk
the porridge pot hides honeyed traps
blueberry buoys, oats and cream
a barely dormant geyser luring prey

a half-dipped spoon
it tethers me to flurried steam above
though slippery on its silver edge
I grip its flowered etchings
clinging, sliding, slowly scaling

sweet allure, a hidden folly
the taste of fingers cleanly licked
from well-meaned mouths above

they lift the spoon
and I come too