I felt the presence of so many souls in this empty room.

I felt something brush against my neck. The brush was cold.

It smelled of rotted meat and toiled field-ground, sticky.

I broke the ice cold quiet with a question. Who are you.

Nothing. A creak, maybe, a disembodied patter of dust, set flight.

—

Someone hung from the rafters in the attic, I'd been told.

Only that wasn't true. They found him in the living room.

Apparently his eyes had popped out of his skull and lay on the carpet.

He'd been there for a while, air soaking in his last exhalations.

I was altogether surprised the ceiling fan had held the whole time.

—

I could touch it, slight sulphur-burn on nosehair and lung.

My arms bumped up, a flat-tire-road-like indicator of augury.

His voice was soft and weak, and he spoke only to me.

"My shoe's untied. Do you mind?" Hair once of my neck ran away.

Strike, redress—I heard his coughed cries from my dented boot-heels.

Same dull knife that ain't been sharpened in years.
But the fingers conform to the worn familiar grip,
between the sweat seasoned tang
and the callous building heel.

Same old blade, same old balance,
that once never bled the eyes
with blasts of sting onion vibes,
now cuts with a thump,
the panic of propane
clings to the nosehair,
with each successive
crossgrain slice.

Same old blade, same old balance,
used to slice garlic thin as almonds,
now gotta lean heavy on the clove,
snap-busting compounds as unstable
as this thin crust hand cracking
the sulphur vents of Vesuvius.