© 2011 Dorothy Mahoney

 

Black Squirrels in October

All night the squirrels gnaw at the pumpkin
on our front porch, knowing the dog is asleep,
they sprint from the door to the tree
when car lights catch them.
Upstairs I revisit pumpkins in dream-fields,
rolling them, rolling them,
thudding monsters across dried stubble.
And how like a nightmare it evolves,
a gaping hole like a constant scream.
It makes me step back from the mailbox
stretching for the morning paper over
disembowelled flesh and scattered seeds.