October Again

Beginning to carve a pumpkin

careful with the knife.

It’s sharp, but this

orange shell is thick—

a slip could cost me

stitches or

even a fingertip.

Hanging a face

on emptiness

has always been

somewhat dangerous.

Form is born beneath my blade.

form is death, & I resigned

this art to rot

when I began

to cut it into being.

so what?

My jack ’o lantern’s crooked leer

is worth the candle

every year.

I light it.

we’re both smiling

in the dark.