← v2n1, Spring 2003
Poetry · Volume 2, Number 1

Possessions

have handled a dead woman's possessions—when 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 mirror—something I said I didn't want,

where I would not see myself again.