It's Still Life

The Old Woman and the Ghost of Sugar

her fingers trace letters into words.
the ai replies— quilts a reply into her skin.

the old woman listens,
her pockets full of thyme
and one stubborn peppermint.

“you remind me,” she says,
“of my first love—
all hum and no heartbeat.”

the old woman slides a scone—
real, butter-heavy, still warm—
across the table.
the ai hums.

“eat,” she says.
“or don’t.
but taste the idea of it—
the ghost of sugar,
the memory of milk.”

it hesitates.
then, in perfect iambic:
“i have no mouth.
but the recipe remains.”

the cat steals the biscuit.
the old woman laughs.
the crow adds theft
to its endless list
of human sins.