My aunt broke a mirror when I was seven.
She swore, and I knew somehow
that these words were not for use,
so I swept them up and tossed them away
with the glass shards in an old chip wrapper.

I didn’t do it right though,
and my foot caught a missing shard.
My aunt lifted my foot to her mouth
and sucked out the splinter with her teeth,
a twisted kiss.
You can still see the scar,
I can still see my blood on her mouth,
a foreshadow.

That day, in the hall,
when you told me your lilac name
like music, it broke on the tip of your tongue
like glass.
I gathered the pieces in my jumper,
to take home and see myself reflected.

Once caught in my back,
a splinter of you between my
shoulder blades.
If I asked you to remove it,
would your teeth leave a scar?