MIRROR
By Ellie Scott
After you nailed me to the wall
I saw my skin:
You were covering it in plywood
layering fibres, spruce and pine
like vanilla milk and coffee, rough
coated with cloying resin gathering dust.
Layers still thin enough (had I not paused)
to peel myself in strips
and loosen all the nails
so I could rip them out by running.
And as I paused, (why did I pause)
the crossgrain bound and wrapped,
muffled my shouts and kicks
to muted taps and tiny splits.
So you glued the splits and sealed them,
opaque grey brushed twice at speed
to clog and thickly hide the scratch
leaving a sable grit and itch.
I suppose I was thankful for the shield
when you poured the copper, oozing over
scar tissue and burns and blisters
then plunged me into ice to set.
And last I was submerged in silver sheen
disguised with glint and gloss and glass.
A mirror,
just hints of me beneath in ripples, in some lights
but at least your studio flat looks nice.