Sonnet on an Orange Slaughter

by Daniel Thomas Moran

COMES October now,
the pumpkins are perishing,
before another All Hallows Eve.
Snatched from patch
by toddler and tyke,
from life giving vine are cleaved.

To celebrate a harvest
they've not ever made,
warn evil spirits from autumn's air.
They load up the holds of SUVs
back to the city they repair.

To lay out sheaves
of last week's news,
on which to eviscerate their prey.
They plunge the blades
of old kitchen knives,
and scoop the jellied bits away.

Lo, the pumpkins screams
are not ever heard,
by the children bent on the killing.
The pumpkins' dreams
taken without a nod,
they assume their victim willing.

Like saints they offer up a life.
Like martyrs born but to die.
Yet hopeful they might reincarnate,
as a wedge of pumpkin pie.

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