More precisely, the Hebrew is Havel: a breath. His life,
as short and ephemeral as an exhale. Don’t ask
if he was a boy scout, or if some lass from God-knows-
where had her sky blue eyes on him; he was
rubbed out, bumped off, smoked.

His brother, like David after Uriah, tried to Houdini himself
out of blame, thinking murder happened in a vacuum—
both thinking their victims wouldn’t be missed any more
than the sheep they kept.

Havel’s blood cries from the ground because he cannot.

           Say it.
                       Breathe it, as if it was your last.


He’s the mute black canary of the Hebrew Testament;
a blood red flag; a hushed warning that Genesis
will not end well.