Erasure

I’m digging through the desk her mother left.

The stationery smells of cedar chips.

I feel a sudden, strange and hollow theft

that brings a bit of copper to my lips.

The name is Caleb, written in a row.

Six times she tried the sound upon the page.

Then one black line, a heavy, jagged blow,

to lock that other child inside a cage.

The 'C' is curled and elegant and deep.

It doesn't look like me, or how I stand.

It’s just a name she didn't want to keep,

a different life she crumpled in her hand.