Getting Over
I keep his cigarette butts in my cereal bowl
on the kitchen table
next to the bottle of wine he drank.
It's become an acrid shrine to forgetting you.
A toast to his teeth gentle on my ribs,
to his thumb beckoning inside me
until you were just
healed bruises and
fingerprints.
It's
a souvenir of his whispered
questions, my answers always
yes, yes,
with the breath of
a woman who has run a long way
to get to this place.
Previously Published by ECLECTICA and in The Transparent Dinner