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."
he spent his days above my ceiling
but i couldn't picture his face
and everything i knew
i learned with my ear flat against the door,
cops talking in the hallway,
or peering through curtains
as his parents limped past.
but ghastly details and family sorrow,
rumors and gossip,
do nothing to explain
how the same hand
that wrote on a mailbox name tag
could turn against itself,
pierce its own flesh,
wring out its own body
like a wet rag.
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 crimson spreading across the floor,
turning black,
like the gaping jaws of the darkest cave.
the contrast is too great.
and that name tag-
it feels dirty.
i pull a book off the shelf
and throw it inside.
i don't know which one
and i don't want to
but someday i'll flip it open
"robert oakes"
will fall out
and the horror
will make me feel alive.
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