Hil Hoover
post-apocalyptic pumpkin patch
vines thick on the ground, leaves
larger than my hand, than both
hands held together - edible, I wonder? - bristly, not quite
pleasant to touch, but not painful
either, smells edible enough when
crushed gently, more cooked-green
than salad, could do, could do,
I whisper aloud, to a party that
hasn’t actually accompanied me
in months, in a world that hasn’t
actually shown me other life in
months, and then, the kicker,
a scrap of blue cloth? hanging
on the vines? sign of life? or death
that happened here?
careful movement forward, machete
equally ready for underbrush or
self-defense, but always eyes on
that scrap of cloth, on that simple
question of life, life, in this post-life
world, this strange patch of garden
in the midst of abandoned homes,
the eventual grasp not with shaking
fingers but with the tip of the blade,
and it comes away slowly, a
child’s blanket snagged on the vines,
a long-lost relic of innocence
hiding what? a missing child?
alive or dead?
neither, but only, the single pumpkin
in the patch, large and ripe and
beautiful, ready to be soup, ready
to be roasted seeds, ready to be
a jack-o-lantern, because why not,
it’s getting cooler, it might even be
Halloween for all I know, having long
since lost track of time, could be,
could be, I whisper aloud, only
I’m not talking to my lost friends now,
am I, but the blanket I’ve picked up
and tucked in my elbow, just in case
it might keep me safe tonight
@wanderinghil on twitter, I always forget to include any links or whatever