i pulled a name tag off a mailbox
in the foyer of my apartment building.
robert oakes.
he lived above my ceiling
but i can't recall his face
and all i know
i learned with my ear flat against the door
cops talking in the hallway
or peering between curtains
as his parents limped past
or whispering with neighbors
like he might hear.
but ghastly details and family grief
rumors and gossip
do nothing to explain.
robert wailed in his mothers' arms
the day he was born
discovered with wonder
his own stubby limbs
and yesterday
he bled until he died
on a folding chair in the shower
crimson spreading
turning black
like the gaping maw of hell.
and i can't stop staring
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