I sit here for the first time since I mourned
bruises you didn’t mean
to leave on my neck, two lost silver fish.

The hygienist is interrogating
my teeth, and I wonder if there is still residue
of you. That is to say, I wanted

to salvage whatever refuge remained
in my gums. He puts a finger in my mouth
to thumb lip tissue out of his way

and I think of the days we avoided
salivation. I let him
excavate each stone carefully.

After he is finished
he dabs my lips with gauze. It is gentle
and I want to cry.