For three years you lived in your house br just as it was before she died: your wedding br portrait on the mantel, her clothes hanging br in the closet, her hair still in the brush. br You have told me you gave it all away br then, sold the house, keeping only the confirmation br cross she wore, her name in cursive chased br on the gold underside, your ring in the same br br box, those photographs you still avoid, br and the quilt you spread on your borrowed bed— br small things. Months after we met, you told me she had br made it, after we had slept already beneath its loft br and thinning, raveled pattern, as though beneath br her shadow, moving with us, that dark, that soft.