Squirming at the pumpkin guts, your hands scooped into ladles, spooning palmfuls of seed and sludge. We took desert spoons to the wisp remains. Raked the slick walls smooth. Marked out the features with sharpies, a wide outline mouth, hollow eyes, skeleton nose. Sawed kitchen knives through thick sick, fingers squeaking tight on the handles. This year, that kitchen is someone else’s, and the plants have not spat out anything other than flowers, their yellow blooms autumn mulched into the borders. There is no spilling through the doorway, hat and coats rain kissed into my open arms. No mud footprints on the tiles. Only seeds, sat on the shelf, kept dark and safe, for more hospitable times. My own roots deepening, on the promises pushed away till Spring. Evening has a weight,a sense of things settling down,comfort in closing.
We walked among roses and he spoke of Paris, of Florence and Venice, of worlds we would travel. We walked among roses until thorns turned to claws and flowers were beautiful no more.
The house came along with the rest of the inheritance; all sixteen million of Uncle Albert’s un-explained fortune. When the men came to fit the new carpets we didn’t question the stained riddled floorboards, the join in the skirting halfway around the living-room or why the job was only ever completed halfway. It was always best to avoid asking questions of Uncle Albert.
No.1 I will take my seat, To watch the skeletons dance, While you carve my name. No.2 Crack down to marrow, Beneath the glitter of blood, And the ragged flesh. Written for the ‘Horrid Haiku’ prompt currently running at ‘Morbid-Poets’ on Deviantart.