The Pumpkin

The Pumpkin

I am the pumpkin,

birthed and tied

to my origin,

till I am ripped from it,

by you grappling,

greedy hands.

“Tradition,” you say.

 

I am the pumpkin.

Blank and awaiting

life’s creativity,

then you sink your knife

in…in…

deeper…deeper.

Hollow me out, and

put my top back on

as if it was all the same.

“Tradition,” you say.

 

I am the pumpkin.

once so full…

now so empty.

Chisel out my eyes,

carve my triangle nose,

best, yet, my smile:

haunting and concrete.

“Tradition,” you say.

 

I am the pumpkin.

ignorant before

of this dance we do.

To fill the darkness

leaking out of my

hollowness,

you place the light,

flickering light,

of my contrived soul;

your creation, too.

“Tradition,” you say.

 

I am the pumpkin.

A shell of everything I

once was and

could have been.

I am the pumpkin!

“No…

the Jack-o-Lantern,” you say.