We plunge our bare hands into our pumpkins
and pull out seeds and strings and thick orange
goo; we scrape at the walls with grapefruit
spoons and all the while as we scoop at the earth-
scented mess, I never once think how I was dreading
this, this annual ritual I’m supposed to enjoy, but don’t.
But tonight it’s as if the part of me in charge of delight
has taken over and I remember I want nothing more
than to be exactly here on the floor with my girl
and my husband, sawing a giant smile into my pumpkin,
fueled by a gratefulness so honest it shines like a votive
through whatever inside me is hollow.