The Lantern

No pumpkin. This October I’ve gone back to what my hands remember best – the wrench and press, sore skin and aching wrists. You slice the top off first to make a lid, then hack and gouge until the spoon bends, scraping out hard yellow parings. Use a knife to pierce a grin and staring eyes, then fix the stump of candle that will give it flickering life, uncanny and oracular despite that smell of scorching root. A turnip lantern. (Mother and Granny fussing round the kitchen, my younger brother wanting his made too.) I lift it: heavy, thickskinned, a golden cave, a blazing skull trepanned and worse for wear. —Only in thought. But next year I might just do it: plant my lantern on the gatepost facing the darkness. Wait and see who comes.