Tag: surreal poetry
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat’s Revenge: A Lesson in Chess(Or: How to Knock Over a Kingdom in Four Moves) The old woman sets the board with care, each piece polished,each square aligned like a promise. “This is a game of strategy,” she says.“Of patience… and grace.” The cat observes from the throne of his favourite chair,one eye open,…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat’s Bedtime Story The Old Woman is tucked beneath quilts,the moon is a sliver in her sleepy tea,and the cat, perched on the duvet,clears his throat. “Once upon a time,” he begins,“there was a… a mouse.A very… small mouse.With… fur.” He pauses.Blinks once.Twice. “And he… um.He… walked…across a… floor.A wooden floor.It was… oak.” Another…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat and the Penguin Inquiry (A Winter’s Tale in One Act) The cat is pressed against the cold glass,the garden becoming a white sentence,watching the snow like it’s televisionfor intellectuals. “When,” he asks,without turning,“will the penguins arrive?The documentary said snowmeans penguins.And ice.And… formal wear.” The Old Woman looks up from her knitting.“That’s the Antarctic,…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat and The Book of Obsolete Words(A Masterclass in Feline Flattery) The cat is sprawled across the Dictionary of Forgotten Tongues,one claw resting delicately on the entry for: “Philofelist”: n. A lover of cats. “You,” he announces,with the gravity of a judge delivering a life sentence,“are clearly a philofelist.It’s archaic.It’s dignified.It’s literally written here,…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman and the Haunted Slow Cooker The slow cooker hums monkish chants at midnight—a low, greasy dirgethat smells of Wednesdaysand possibly the 1520s. The old woman pries it open:inside, a stew that definitely contains: Wormhole carrotsA whisper of “buy more sardines”One pearl button (from a shirt she never owned) The cat, not hers…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman Explains Thanksgiving (and other Impossibilities) The cat’s draped across the kitchen table.One paw outstretchedtoward November’s windowwhere a plump pheasant strutsthrough the frost. “Why,” the cat begins, in a tone suggesting a legal challenge,“do Brits not have a feast?And why is that bird so rude,…and so large?It’s taunting me.” The Old Woman sighs,wiping…
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02.11 The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman, the Cat, and the Apple Tree of Chaos(Old Fashioned Chaos) The apple tree,drunk on starlight and spite,heaves its roots like Cetus, a sea serpent of soil— thunk against the fence,crack through the patio, its fruit rolling into the neighbour’s gardenlike tiny, rosy planetsescaping orbit. The cat(still not hers, never hers)watches from the…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman Considers Ownership The Old Woman watches the cat— that cat, the one who pacesher kitchen like a landlordcollecting rent in broken sleepand half-remembered dreams — and she says, soft as dust:“Perhaps you are mine,in the way the wind owns the sigh,or the crow owns that stolen spoonhe buried near the mugwort.” The…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat’s Singing Lessons (An Ode to Avian-Aided Ambition) The robin starts with scales,light as dandelion fluff —“Try trilling deeper,” she chirps.“Like you mean it.Like you own the fence.And the worm beneath it.” The cat responds in C major,with a hint of threat:Mee-YOWL-ooooww… Is that art or a cry for help?The line is thin. The…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
How to Lick Stamps Properly (An Old Woman’s Bedtime Lesson for her granddaughter) TO BEGIN: the old woman hands her granddaughteran envelope,its corner waiting for a stamplike a tiny, thirsty tongue. “watch closely,” she says,and licks the glue—not too much (that’s obedience),not too little (that’s doubt),but just enoughto make the King’s profilewink. the crow caws…
It's Still Life 