It's Still Life

About The Old Woman Without a Cat

The Old Woman and the Spiral Eyes

the old woman with no cat—
her vision unwinds itself
like a cassette tape left in the rain—
the world smudges, blooms,
becomes an impressionist’s afterthought.

rest your rebel eyes, says the cat,
knocking over her reading glasses
for the third time today.
(it claims it’s helping.)

she knows the truth:
even AMD can’t make her miss
what really matters—

like the neighbour’s ivy
bleeding under the fence,
the way the crow drops its voice
to a gravelly whisper when it thinks
she’s not listening.

she tapes newspaper headlines
to the fridge in large print:
GRAVITY STILL WORKS.
CAT STILL AN ASSHOLE.
MILK STILL COLD.

when the letters wriggle like minnows,
she laughs, swiping at them
like a bear batting at salmon.

the cat, horrified, brings her its favourite toy—
a button, a bottle cap,
a single shrivelled pea—
here. focus on this.

tonight, she’ll dream in braille.
tomorrow, she’ll read the sun
like a giant, merciful headline.