by Anne Boileau
Puffball white round glowing Balaisha Beacon moon White Rabbit. Full beside the dark stream – is it lit from within? Is Moon lit from within? Am I lit from within? You know it’s no. But sometimes a sort of Hallowe’en effect you know the hollowed out pumpkin all that pulp, those seeds such profligacy – that final scrape with the old zinc spoon, then let them use your sharp knife to carve two eyes, a gruesome, grinning, toothy smile and drop a burning night light in, replace the lid which has the stalk reminding us that pumpkin once was attached to a vine and now it’s been eviscerated – unseeded, exseminated (is that a word?) and its seeds forever will never be allowed to germinate instead they’ll be roasted with salt and soy sauce, nice nibbled with a splash of port or sherry to fortify against those little darlings wrapped in black bin bags who knock at the door offering trick or treat, rules unclear an uneasy import from the USA where they think children are sweet and should be seen and heard. Now remember how the puffball glows on the bank among grasses and sedge seems to be a stand-in for the full moon above that hurries past the broken clouds – silver, orange, forget Balaisha whoever she was the pumpkin glowing harvest moon; pumpkin plenty pie - cinnamon and eggs I hate the taste though I like corn bread and English muffins I never saw muffins before I went there just knew the song and now they’ve come back home and are white and round just like the puffball I love the puffball would take it home carve up its whiteness, fry it in butter, but I can’t bear to lift it from its gentle anchoring snuff its glow a lightship to warn of the dark deep stream.
Copyright © 2020 Anne Boileau