← v2n1, Spring 2003Poetry · Volume 2, Number 1
Possessions
have handled a dead woman's possessionswhen you could no longer bear to touch
them, the clothes still fragrant, worn, still that reminiscent
of the body. Or perhaps your lover packed the many boxes herself, released from secret
into fury, that sick of the scent of me
in the bed, that wary of her face caught in my mirrorsomething I said I didn't want,
where I would not see myself again.
