75. Mirror

she’s breaking glass
again. she likes the way
it looks when her face shatters
pieces and shards from years
of stone-tossing
they’ve gotten heavier recently
but she’ll forget sometimes
and keep a tiny
pebble in her pocket for weeks

once it fell out
of her jeans. I took it
home, threw it at the silver
lake above my carpet
it bounded to the waiting ground

Lie on the floor
with me; I’m in a masochistic mood.
she reaches her hand
with stubby runt nails
and tries to reach me, but the glass
gets caught in her heels
she says this means death for
her, little cuts staining ancient
reflections. I swim away
from a sharper piece marred
with blood, and join her with
scarred arms. we’re drowning in
scabs that haven’t yet healed
and she peels them off, throws
them at me, laughing