The Knife
I had a little mirror
on a keychain,
a giveaway from a judge
who wanted reelection –
one side her picture,
the other a mirror.
I carried it in my bag
because I was vain,
insecure, often checking
my blemishes.
On our front porch,
I had the keys in my hand
to open the door.
My father saw light reflected
in the mirror.
His eyes narrowed.
You’re going to cut me with that?
I saw that judge’s face.
Why did I carry this?
The mirror reflected
only adversary,
only threat.
Anne Mesquita (she/her) studies poetry at the Hudson Valley Writers Center. She is producing a collection about her father’s illness, grief, and coming-of-age. She works in Libraries Administration at Columbia University. She lives in Westchester, New York with her husband and daughter.
The Marbled Sigh 