The Mark That Remains

The nametag stuck to my chest

and I passed some kind of test.

My name was suddenly real.

Sarah. A way to appeal

to people who hadn't known

what to call me. Now shown

on plastic, I was specific.

The regulars saw my name

before my face. The same

customers I'd served for weeks

now had permission to speak

my name out loud. To address

me with my name. To confess

that they knew who I was.

The man in the corner used it.

"Sarah, can I get—" He'd fused

me to my name. My identity

suddenly had utility.

Visibility meant politeness.

Visibility meant his brightness

shifted when he looked at me.

When I peeled it off, the mark

remained. A rectangular dark

outline. The negative space

where I'd been. Where the place

of my name had been pressed

into my skin. The test

I'd passed and now failed.

Forty minutes later

it's still there. The creator

of this small white square

is time. It's the care

the adhesive took to brand me

temporarily. To understand me

as something that could be labeled.

And then removed.