It's Still Life

The Old Woman and the Haunted Slow Cooker

The slow cooker hums monkish chants at midnight—
a low, greasy dirge
that smells of Wednesdays
and possibly the 1520s.

The old woman pries it open:
inside, a stew that definitely contains:

Wormhole carrots
A whisper of “buy more sardines”
One pearl button (from a shirt she never owned)

The cat, not hers and she assumes will never be,
presses its ear to the lid:
“Yep. Un-seasoned afterlife. Haunted.”

The cat drops an anchovy into the pot
like a subpoena duces tecum.

And so the old woman does what any sane woman would:
She unplugs the appliance,
pours in a bottle of cheap merlot,
and shouts “BON APPÉTIT, DEMON.”

By dawn, the kitchen smells of:
redemption, garlic,
and catnip.