I sent you a list of what I wanted, and you boxed it up carelessly, as though for the backs <br /> of strangers, or for the fire, the way you might <br /> <br />have handled a dead woman's possessions—when you could no longer bear to touch <br /> them, the clothes still fragrant, worn, still that reminiscent <br /> <br />of the body. Or perhaps your lover packed the many boxes herself, released from secret <br /> into fury, that sick of the scent of me <br /> <br />in the bed, that wary of her face caught in my mirror—something I said I didn't want, <br /> where I would not see myself again.<br /><br />Claudia Emerson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/posessions/
