The bright flesh of an autumn squash,
baked until soft. Pierced with a fork;
you know it is just right when the metal
sinks in with no resistance.
I have been scraping it hollow
for a very long time.
There’s not enough flesh left for a meal,
but I’ve dug out such a clean case,
that at least I can still be carved,
made into a flickering warning,
A candle-lit gourd upon the doorstep.
Abandon hope all ye who enter here.