Halloween, New Brighton

My tongue sticks out
of the side of my mouth
as I cut zig-zag teeth
into the pumpkinís ripe flesh
and Iím sort of snoring
even though Iím awake.

One eye is bigger than the other
so that now its expression changes
from curious innocence to a menacing glare
theatrically perched above
a single, triangular nostril.
I gouge out brains
and light the candle.

I can see them
outside number forty-three, ringing the bell.
Someone switches on a hall light.
They are a small city skyline
all huddled together
in pointy hats.
Last year they looked very frightened
when I opened my door
and offered them
sweets.

I wait on the sofa and wonder
if I should do something with my hair,
lose a mole or two, ditch the pentagram medallion.
But he just so loves me to wear it.
Put the pentagram medallion on again
he booms, picking up his cello.

Late into the evening
we watch the orange flesh shrivel,
teeth that only earlier
were fit to feast and tear
now gummy and almost
disappointed.

By Janine Pinion