Getting Over

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.