The Prosecution Rests


︎︎︎ Sorcova de Corb

︎ Aug 25, 2026

When did you know?

Three seconds after meeting, rushing on College,
then right on Russell? You skipped and coursed.
I couldn’t keep up. Sodium streetlamps gilded your
feline grin. The bored Slav minding
cigarette cartons and a scratched counter
scowled when I pointed at breath mints, but
lines on his forehead softened while you joked.
I shoved you out, afraid your voltaics would spark the two
pumps. Behind the closing door, he pocketed change,
watching me chase the wind-spun riot of your hair.

Was it when we mapped each other’s faces, palpating
salted trails after a long night under Sonoma redwoods?
Reclined in the passenger seat, cheeks lychee-pink,
daring me to steer one-handed through Big Sur bends?

Tell me. When did a gavel strike your chest,
announcing winter?

How did you know that we too would
forget summer?

Answer!

                              Defense objects, your Honor.
                              Opposing counsel is litigating ghosts.

    SUSTAINED!
    A fruitless line of questioning:
    The witness-accused isn’t present, and
    this court is not a time machine.
    ALL RISE:
    Our finding is that there’s no when or how—
            not anymore—
                                        a Cheshire or Maneki-neko cipher,
                                                                    dissolved.



Sorcova de Corb hails from Carpathian hinterlands and tends to a small garden in the Lone Star State. He no longer consorts with the fair folk.

Also by Sorcova: skyline boulevard