Pumpkin Shell
You don’t come in a box but you’re a puzzle
No instructions
No manual folded in impossible creases.
A palm print command
In blue paint on red rock I could understand but
This
This iron mouth chewing through my mongrel bones
This is some type of theatre, surely -
Believing you are the fourth wall then
Coming home to tea and toast
Burnt, marmalade, brilliant.
But again, the impossible velvet draws open
And we snap like cinnamon sticks
The smell in the air for days.
You know, I know, they know
If someone left a bundle on our porch
We’d blow ourselves a new stage.
Never a new door.
A door would be impossible.
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