Concave

The spoon slowed and there I was—

inverted, pale, the kitchen curved

behind me into something I didn't recognize,

the overhead light a ring I hadn't earned.

The milk had gone still.

My face looked like someone who'd been asked

a question in a room full of people

and hadn't known enough to be masked.

I've seen worse in actual mirrors.

But something about the concave curve—

the way it takes your face and folds it under,

gives it back with a slight, indifferent swerve

from whatever you believe you look like.

The milk moved. The image broke.

The cereal had gone soft. I was late.

I scraped it into the sink and spoke

to no one. Rinsed the bowl.

Put the spoon in the rack.

Stood at the door with my keys.

Did not look back.