The finger went out before the sound

The finger went out before the sound

had finished being a sound—

before the third piece settled, she was already

pointing at the cat.

The cat was on the couch. We both knew.

She knew I knew. She kept pointing anyway.

I stood at the sink with wet hands

and didn't say a word,

because I remember the green bowl.

My mother's green bowl.

The dog had been outside all afternoon—

I remember his paws still muddy by the door—

and still I said his name.

Like the name was a broom.

Like if I said it fast enough

the bowl would stop being broken.

She's still pointing.

The cat yawns from the other room.

Neither of us moves.