Identifying Mark

He said it wrong again — some soft cousin

of my name, offered with full confidence

the way men in meetings offer everything:

as fact.

I smiled. I said: actually.

He nodded. He will not remember by Thursday.

I went to the women's bathroom on the second floor,

the one with the fluorescent tube that hums

slightly flat, and stood at the sink

and looked at my hands.

Pressed my thumb to the cracked phone screen.

Watched the smear I left —

the ridge lines of me, right there,

briefly, in the light.

Proof of presence.

Admissible.

The lock screen went dark in eleven seconds.