Midge Goldberg
In the Kitchen
—for Mekeel McBridge
The pumpkin rests on the counter,
lines etched into its leathery flesh
by rain, light, July’s hail—
an ancient sun blazing,
red giant of the kitchen.
The boy does not utter a prayer
as he plunges the knife in
to this miniature universe—
a trapdoor of mind and marrow.
He lifts out a rosary of seeds,
clustered stars of lost chances.
Slowly, eyes open to the touch
of the blade, the mouth stretched
into a grimace of sharpened yellow teeth.
Placing it by the window, the boy turns
the face away, toward the black world.
