In the world under this one is its mirror image, bent and fragmented, curved and slanted. At first I hoped it a distortion, the way the light breaks over the slats, the grooves, the way it reforms our faces, our heights, widths, minds, so we are heavy footed and alien, monsters of ourselves.
Now I see its truth, the inverse of what we knew, but an inverse of an inverse, somehow truer truth, where straight becomes crooked and other things become love, a love more wonderful than I knew.
In the mirror the prism of sight reflects back on itself, so the crookedness of our feelings, the mire of our confusion, is not a maze but an explanation.
We have memories, yes we have memories, of days before we could see under our own feet, before we lifted up the rug and dug into the floorboards, deeper, to find what was there, before the world had curves and slants and fragments but fit together with illusory perfection, one clear picture, a photograph, of static understanding.
In the world under this one there's another world that scares me.
Sometimes the mirror looks more like a window.