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.