It's Still Life

The Old Woman and Cat-Alchemy

the cat stands on its hind legs at dawn,
paws deep in the flour bin,
whisking chaos into a sort-of roux,

“observe,” it intones,
as three eggshells levitate
and the toaster hums.

the old woman watches,
arms crossed,
coffee steaming a fog:
“that’s not how physics works,” she says.

the cat flicks its tail,
a spatula, somehow —
and flips a pancake upside-down
and into another dimension.

the crow, sniffs:
“this maple smells of purgatory.”

by noon, the kitchen is a temple
of improbable scents:

burnt sugar saints,
a soup that might be time travel,
and a ghost of truth serum.

the old woman sighs,
stirs the cauldron with a twig,
“okay, fine. you’re a wizard.
now clean up your portals, cat.”