It's Still Life

The Old Woman Arrives Fashionably Late to Her Exorcism the ghost taps its foot.“you were supposed to be here at midnight.” the old woman checks her watch—a thrift-store relic,its hands permanently stuck at almost. “traffic,” she lies. the neighbour’s cat (her ride-or-die)hisses at the holy water font,then knocks it over. for fun. the priest sighs.…

The Old Woman Considers Aphids and the Meaning of Lunch the lupins tremble under their tiny, hungry gods—green stems bowing like philosopherswho’ve just realisedthey’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 someonewho’s never been licked.”…

The Old Woman and the Wayward Compass the compass hums in her hand—not north,not south,just toward. its needlequivers like a dowser’s rod. “useless,” snorts the cat,“unless toward means tuna.”the robin, nostalgic for linearity, chirps: “back in my day,we had four whole directions—” “shush,” smiles the old woman,planting the compass in the gardento see what grows.…

Dead Woman and the Cat’s Morning Doctrine the cat—still not hers, never hers—strikes across the kitchen counterlike anarchy, knocking over the salt shaker,the sugar bowl,and the old woman’s last clean spoon. the old woman, sipping coffeedark as a black hole’s résumé,watches the cat’s carnage. “you’re technically a natural disaster.”the cat pauses, and stares. “and you’re…