The mirror steamed then clear

The mirror, steamed, then clear,

showed shoulders, wet and bare.

And there, held in my fear,

that small, dark, unbought stare.

A splutter, a brown dot,

a stain the sun can't fade.

A secret I forgot,

a mark that someone made

before I knew to breathe,

a quiet, constant fact.

What story did it weave?

A tiny, fixed tract

of skin, a private sign.

It makes me, somehow, mine.

A question, always there.

A little patch of air.