Pumpkin Faces

My first sound cloud effort!

Between us sit

two well ribbed pumpkins

a plastic bucket in which to pile

their stringy, seeded insides

and two knives.


We grip and slice

you are meticulous

your pumpkin’s empty belly

is scoured with a spoon for every

dangling vein


Mine is messily chunky.

When we light them

Yours is a pale orange that will glow even in daylight

The natural sun sending as pure a flame

Through the hollowed cradle


Mine is as dark as if -you say-

It had fresh emerged from a sewer.

The light it holds spits through

The diamond eyes, the triangle nose

The zigzag mouth.


Our pumpkins perch on the edge

Of the window sill

They might be guards,

keeping out the winter winds

that gather in strength

as, softly, the flesh

decomposes in our

heated living room. 


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