It's Still Life

The Old Woman Considers Aphids and the Meaning of Lunch

the lupins tremble under their tiny, hungry gods—
green stems bowing like philosophers
who’ve just realised
they’re also on the menu.

“to be eaten,” the old woman muses,
“is just another way of being useful.”

the cat (still not hers, never hers)
flicks an ear:
“spoken like someone
who’s never been licked.”

aphids gleam, drunk on chlorophyll,
their jaws working
like the world’s smallest apocalypse—
a soft gnashing,
like prayer with teeth.

the crow drops a single, stolen pesticide leaflet—
solutions! it caws, triumphant.

the old woman folds it into a kite,
pins it with a thorn,
and lets the wind take it.

“some solutions,” she tells the aphids,
“are just ruin in a nicer coat.”

behind her, the lupins whisper
their old names,
and keep on blooming.