Dull Blade

The onion skins are papery and dry,

clinging to the wood like a second skin.

I never thought I'd be the one to try

to make a dinner where the walls feel thin.

The serrated knife is notched and old,

sawing through the root with a jagged sound.

The oil in the pan is turning gold,

while the smoke alarm waits to be found.

I burnt the garlic until it went black,

a bitter smell that fills the quiet hall.

There is no one coming to take the slack,

or answer when the hunger starts to call.