it is not his words solely
but the way he spits them to her face -
hiss of the blade, sharp upper cut
that makes her cringe like a
disemboweled rotting pumpkin -
scalp torn open, carved bleak
candles all melted inside-
she slowly stirs the pot
kitchen is messy of peelings,
seeds & sweet golden pears
& rich coconut cream-
she once was like this - cream
puffed, silver-glass slippered girl,
riding a carriage made out of pumpkins-
now, she feels trapped under a lantern's
ghostly smile & empty
of autumn's colors,
she scoops red chili paste
slowly staining the yellow puree
hiding the tears crawling down her chin
like ants, crimson as her hands
breaking into leaves,
soundless, the arc of a falling knife
Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Talking about pumpkins and/or issues - Happy Saturday ~
