Concave

Saturday afternoon is a quiet kind of rot.

I’m sitting at the table with a bowl of flakes

and the back of the spoon is looking at me.

My nose is a bulbous, distorted mountain,

and my eyes are stretched toward my ears

like I’m being pulled apart by a centrifugal force.

I turn it over and the world flips.

The ceiling is the floor and the kitchen cabinets

are hanging over a white, ceramic abyss.

I look small in the bowl of the stainless steel,

a tiny, upside-down person eating lunch

in a room that doesn't know which way is up.