When she carved the pumpkin,
her hand sunk deep into its flesh
and, as she scooped the insides,
she thought of the murder–
how the face went soft,
yet wide-eyed, open-mouthed,
stringy seeds spilling
onto her dress.
She twisted the knife in,
his body thrusting forward,
not expecting the blow
or that she would fight back.
Now only a pile of damp pulp
on the old, wooden floor
remained to be cleared
before the celebration.
Her steady hand putting
flame to the candle
and placing the toothy head
before the house
as a beacon to those who
would come knocking
that night.
— © Rick Baldwin
