No pumpkin to carve? No problem.
There’s a glut of grins to stare at,
both sweet and snaggled, enough
to gleam on every politician’s face,
available 24/7 on the nearest screen.
Let’s scrape out the seeds of change
to roast in oil and salt, salt, salt.
Soon we’ll feast, splintering them
between our teeth, these shells
and kernels, because what else
is there to eat? If it’s shock you want,
here’s the tea: witches only tried
to save our asses and now
there’s too few of them left.
We are on our own together
with only as much magic as we remember
how to find. My street, like yours,
is just one dimly lit haunt in a city
in a country in a land afloat for now
on a swollen ocean the color
of anesthetized sleep. Every teenager
on your doorstep without a costume
can’t help showing up dressed
as a soldier who’s wandered off
from a greater war. The least
anyone can share is a handful
of candy. Leave your lamp on
way too late and greet each soul
in your doorframe, which demands
no polyester spider webbing: each year,
fattened troops of orb weavers
return to occupy our porches.
They knit their traps unasked
then hang from that cold
and efficient lacework, so massive
even the crows leave them alone.
–
Abby E. Murray (they/them) is the editor of Collateral, a literary journal concerned with the impact of violent conflict and military service beyond the combat zone. Their book, Hail and Farewell, won the Perugia Press Poetry Prize and was a finalist for the Washington State Book Award. Abby served as the 2019-2021 poet laureate for the city of Tacoma, Washington, and currently teaches rhetoric in military strategy to Army War College fellows at the University of Washington.
