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Still Life With Pistol Marzeelle Robertson after Antoni Tåpies There is the requisite table, but no goblets, no pitchers, no bowls of fruit or flowers, not even a partridge or a slaughtered hare. There is a pistol on the table, large, its grip toward someone who was or had been there leaving cigarette butts in an ashtray, a heaviness in the table, the gun, the air of someone who waits. In still lifes, someone always is just out of sight, has poured from a pitcher or gathered the fruit, and we can’t fully know their intent, as with whoever has set this table out in the night like a table of justice or judgment on a high terrace or ledge overlooking a town, a street of white houses with lights on inside but no people, no movement, nothing to create sound. If there is still life in such stillness, it could be our collective breath held in the shadow of violence, or it could be the quiet of people quiet because our conscience goes peacefully through its routines with lamps lit, unaware, or as if unaware, 88

2017 Freshwater Literary Journal  
2017 Freshwater Literary Journal  

Professional literary journal produced at Asnuntuck Community College

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