Identifying Mark

She touched my collarbone at the party

and asked if it was a bruise.

It's never a bruise. It's older than

any word I'd choose

to name myself. The color of tea

steeped too long in a white mug,

sitting where the collar slips—

not quite hidden. Not quite snug.

I've explained it to lovers and doctors,

to a woman with wine and a wide

sense of permission. Every time

I feel like a tour guide

in somebody else's museum.

Here's the body. Here's the mark.

No, it doesn't hurt. No, I don't

remember. I arrived with this dark

stain the same way I arrived with lungs—

unasked, unplanned.

She pulled her hand back.

I didn't understand

why I stood there wanting

to apologize for something

that was always mine

before anything was mine.