Accumulation

The sun is a witness

slanting across the top of the Frigidaire,

lighting up the years

I didn't bother to reach for.

I ran a finger along the cabinet edge

and came back wearing a grey sweater

of felted skin and engine soot.

A decade of skin cells

settling into a soft, thick fur.

In the light, the room is full of them—

unbreathable ghosts hanging in the air,

waiting for the lungs to open up

and give them a place to land.