Still in the Drawer

The pencil had been in the junk drawer

for eighteen months. I knew whose.

She moved to Portland in the fall.

I use pens mostly. I didn't lose

it—just didn't throw it out.

Today I needed one. Made a list.

And then, without thinking, put it

in my mouth and felt the twist

of her marks: two ovals near the top,

the yellow paint worn off. Her bite.

Her specific hold. I stood

at the counter. The half-finished white

of the page. Olive oil. Bread.

Her ridge between my teeth. She's fine—

Portland, we text, last month she replied

within the hour. Hers and mine

both fine. I took the pencil out.

Put it back. The list is still there.

I'm putting my coat on.

I'm putting my coat on. I swear

I'm about to go.