Jack
D Larissa Peters

Bright-washed pumpkins sit now jagged-teeth beings,
witches, cats, aliens — wondering, waiting for what is rumored:
the Night of Nights: what they grew for, will glow for. Standing proudly,
candle flickering inside orange-pulp brains, little knowing
tomorrow they still sit, forgotten. Hat burned, mouth soon withered,
wrinkled, squash wrapped around teeth and eyes,
melting into cement steps, they’ll sit.
And sit. On that first night, could they refuse to glow as high-candied legs
yell Trick or Treat!? If they knew
on a late November morning, a child un-costumed
stomps down.
Hard.