I hate this part of me,

which is all of me -

a part I can’t part with.

The part of me,

that is the part of me that others see.

it’s the ping that comes from oblivion -

delivered across pathways unbeknownst to man

but it lands so safely

in a square coral of savage madness

this woman

who lived an existence of strife

one taken in cold blood

she had a son

for he knew her

There is an old, white binder in the top of the office closet.

That inconspicuous place where belongings go to die - to be summoned by the goodwill box during the great spring clean.

It lives there, sequestered, breathing the dust of estrangement.