It's Still Life

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…

The Old Woman Declares the Milk is Still Cold she presses the glass bottle to her cheek—a trial by touch, a verdict rendered:“still cold.” the cat (still not hers, but always judging)flicks its tail like a metronome set to skepticism:“prove it.” so she does: exhibit a:the condensation’s slow slide,thick as honey. exhibit b:the fridge light’s…

The Old Woman and Appendix C: Loopholes as love language the old woman underlines:“by consuming this product, you agreeto everything found inspite, loopholes, andthe neighbour’s unsecured wifi.” the cat (still not hers, legally speaking)paws at clause 4.2: liability for falling objects—“define object,” it scoffs,knocking over a vase.“define falling.” the crow, ever the contract killer,drops black’s…