A Pumpkin’s Plea
I sit on the stoop,
meditating and waiting.
I don’t know who I am
or which way I’m facing.
I hope you’ll come soon
with a sharp silver blade
to hacksaw my head
and muck out my brain.
I’m desperate for eyes
like sad gaping moons
or slightly tipped triangles
threatening doom.
I crave a bright smile
and maybe some teeth—
a couple that dangle
or a set to mince meat.
A nose might make sense,
centered and friendly,
though a smooth empty space
looks disturbing and deadly.
Come, bring your knife.
Don’t make me wait!
I’m scared that you’ll leave me
without any face.
Last year I wrote a poem about my strong desire not to carve my pumpkin. My pumpkin was so perfect, I couldn’t imagine changing it. This year as I sat down to write my annual Halloween poem, I wondered about my pumpkin’s point of view. I suddenly worried: what if my pumpkin had really wanted to be carved?!
© Elizabeth Steinglass, all rights reserved, 2014