The Mark, Untouched By Me

"What's that smudge?" he asked, pointing

at my cheek, a casual, quick flick

of a finger, startling. The anointing

of attention, making my skin prick.

And I was thrown back, years, to the sunlight

on the back porch, a summer day.

My cousin, small, with eyes so bright,

had traced a pattern on my calf, at play.

"It's like a coffee spill," she said, so grave,

her finger cool against the skin.

A tiny island, a secret wave

of pigment, a story I didn't begin

to know. My own body, a map

I hadn't fully read, or understood.

A small, dark spot, a sudden, quiet trap

of being seen, where I had never stood.