Small Print

I was cleaning the mirror

before you came over—

Windex, paper towel, top to bottom.

Near the lower left corner,

where the light from the bulb

above the sink hit the glass

at an angle,

I found it.

A small print.

Smaller than mine.

One ridge, one partial arch,

the size of a child's thumb.

I don't have children.

No one has been here in three weeks.

I stood with the wet paper towel

and tried to build it backward—

whose hand, what height, which visit.

Nothing came.

I wiped it away.

You came over.

I poured the drinks.

I kept thinking about the angle of the light,

the small oval smear,

how it had been sitting there

the whole time I was living here,

invisible until I tilted the right way.