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