I’ve almost made myself forget
her cigarettes with their kiss
of lipstick on the tan, mottled
filters – her fingers, 

how they hugged each one,
dimpling the white tube
right where it met
the stiff band, 

                                 almost lost
the sense of her small slender hands
lifting them. Have almost forgot how

she brought them to her mouth
as if in secret
     as if no one could see
         (she never
                ever all her life let
      her parents see
her smoke).  

                  Almost I’ve lost
the memory of her inhales,
the drift or sharp
expulsion of the smoke, how white

it was –how  pure,
         like my guilt now
at how superior I felt
after I quit,  

how cold her anger then,
born in those years 
             – ice between us.