Evidence

I pulled the glass from the dishwasher

and found a thumbprint on the inside,

pressed into the mineral deposit with a quiet pride

of presence.

Perfect detail: the whorls,

the loops and ridges that make

this thumb different, that stake

their claim in the glass's pearls

of dust. The glass was still wet.

Water beaded on the rim.

The light caught the print, made it shimmer

like someone had just left their debt—

their fingerprint—moments ago.

But the glass had been washed.

Had been through the cycle. Sashed

in heat and spray and water's flow.

Still the thumb remained.

Still the evidence.

Still the specific reference

to a hand that had deigned

to hold this glass, to drink,

to touch the inside where no one looks,

leaving behind these tiny books

of identity in the mineral link.

I held it to the window.

Tried to match the print to someone.

But it belonged to everyone.

It belonged to time.

I set it down. Haven't picked it up.

The water's gone.

The print goes on.

That small cup

holds more than liquid now.