Pumpkin Gut

Seeds, smooth and fleshy as an oyster's tongue,

come sliding down the curved walls of the pumpkin.

The orange inner skin leaves gooseflesh on mine

as the light of the blemished moon creeps in.

I see the outside world through the jagged holes of the cork,

where body has been severed from mother root.

The lines, like a predator's jaw, are narrow and immense.

And as I pull my head back to peer into these horrible slits

I fail to find the glimmering brown of the forest.

The darkness is interrupted by a flicker of red,

a shiver travels from the dancing flame to my sweating neck.

Beeswax and stringy organs blend together under the candle's heft.

and as the blasted seeds burn to charcoal at my feet,

I will myself to climb out of the monster's mouth.

My knees, damaged as if by rigid prayer,

grow purple as I scramble and fail

to ascend from the pumpkin's puckering cheek.

Its carved smile taunts me with glimpses of life,

it seems to say, Hurry, or you'll have to stay

trapped in October with me, until the final dawn of your days.

So I gather my strength,

take hold of the orange vines and the toothy cuts

and heave myself through the knife's work,

the drooping cavern, the guts.

Until out I plop, alongside the sweet mucus of the fruit,

back into the woods, my life, and the soggy leaves,

the crisp Fall dew, and the potential to start anew.