Basement

The humidity is a hand on my neck.

It’s pulling something out of the floorboards—

a thick, heavy sweetness

that isn't quite sugar.

I opened the drawer by the stove.

Cedar blocks and old bacon fat.

Maybe it’s the way the dust settles.

Or something else.

There’s a gray smudge on the wood.

An oily mark where a hand once pushed.

I recognize the ghost of the smell,

but the name of it

is stuck behind my teeth.