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Haunted Houses

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.

My body:
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.
Posted 10/16/17
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