Someone Else's Jaw

The mirror in the restaurant bathroom

was old glass — thick-framed,

slightly green, the way water looks

when it's deeper than you thought.

I washed my hands. Looked up.

And there was a face

that took a full beat

to become mine.

Not older. Not tired.

Something worse: unfamiliar

in a way I couldn't fix

with lighting or angle.

The proportions were off,

or I was off

about the proportions.

The jaw heavier than I carry it

in my head. The mouth

not where I leave it.

The faucet still running.

The single bulb above

doing its dull work.

I stood there

the way you stand

in front of a door

you're not sure

is yours.

Someone knocked.

I turned off the water.

Went back to the table,

sat down, picked up my glass,

and for the rest of dinner

kept reaching under the table

to touch my own jawline —

pressing the bone,

checking,

the way you pat your pocket

for keys you already know

you've lost.

Who was that.

Not the question you ask

about strangers.