Hollow pumpkins: I’m drinking outside.
I wrote another poem
that’s sort of about you—and pieces of others.
Listening to raspy female vocals
to loosen my ribcage.
My lovely son asks a deep, thoughtful question
I’m too afraid to answer—I’m not sure I can.
(bless his heart) He needs an answer, but
so do I.
My night is lit eyes
like a hollow pumpkin
with a candle in its guts,
flickering in shadows
held too close.
A lover’s whisper trapped in a seedy hell;
I guess I’ll just never know.
To empty black air, to
pumpkins, and Jesus out there,
caroling in my yard,
I treasure each and every All Hollow’s Eve;
It reminds me of parking lots, fall festivals and the girls I left behind.