You break your weight in glass before you string
the shards and count bad luck among your friends.
For years to come you’ll balance every point
against your throat, then surrender as point
after point draws blood. You could loosen the string,
remove a dozen shards, but your friends
wouldn’t approve the lie. They think good friends
wear sharp smiles, and they assure you the point
of punishment is to leave marks: String -
tighten the string, friend. We’ll point out your scars.
If you have any comments on this poem, Marybeth Rua-Larsen would like to hear from you.