Concave

Day three of whatever this was.

Soup from a can. The table.

The particular quiet.

I held the spoon up mid-reach

and caught my own face in it—

upside down in the bowl,

the forehead enormous, the eyes too wide.

I looked like a warning.

Turned the spoon over:

the convex side, the face compressed

to a small smear of features.

That was worse somehow.

I turned it back. Ate the rest.

Kept the spoon at the edge of my vision

for the rest of the bowl.

The broth gone lukewarm.

The soup tasted like salt and not much else.

I washed the spoon and put it away.