Neither he nor she, but it; not human
but magic kind, it squats scooping the guts
from a pumpkin. Tweaking a wicker man’s
body to crown with the pumpkin its cut,
the ratty humanoid creature ignores
the clinking chains that bind it to this spot.
It’s outlived its sanity; life’s a chore.
It carves squash flesh, to make faces that’ll rot,
It hunches over the jack-o-lantern.
A man watches, his hand gripping his sword,
a flash of a pink cheek makes his anger burn.
He advances, severs chains with his sword.
Once freed the sculptor, in its arms settled,
the fresh jack-o-lantern he had jostled.
~ ~ ~
I saw Jennifer Nichole Wells’ entry for careful and this poem unfolded. Thanks for the inspiration!