after everything calmed down
but before the ebb and flow
of daily currents
softened all the edges,
i pulled a name tag off a mailbox
in the foyer of my apartment building.
"robert oakes."
i may not have even met him,
i don't remember
i certainly did not understand.
but who did?
his neighbors eavesdropped
on ghastly details
and his parents limped with grief
when they collected his things
and everyone who heard
told family and friends
and started serious conversations
but no one has a clue.
i cannot understand
how the same hand
that wrote on a mailbox name tag
could turn against itself
could pierce its own flesh
could wring out its own body
like a wet towel.
and how the same child
that wailed in its mother's arms
and greeted the world with wonder
and graduated from high school
and came home to visit
on christmas and thanksgiving
and easter
could end up lifeless
on a folding chair in the shower
with a carpet knife
and blood seeping
through the crack under the door
soaking the carpet in the hallway.
the contrast is too great.
and that name tag--
it feels dirty.
i pulled a book off the shelf
and threw it inside.
i don't know which one
and i don't want to.
but some day i'll flip it open
"robert oakes" will fall out
and i will not know what to say
all over again.
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