Mirror, Mirror 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. Marybeth Rua-Larsen If you have any comments on this poem, Marybeth Rua-Larsen would like to hear from you.