FIONNA INWARD ALLEN
Put my ear
to your door
and like a seashell
hear the sonar gabble
of my insides;
around the day’s
Tonight we carved a pumpkin and it lit up your beautiful face.
We dug into it with spoons and you clutched the pulp
in little hands,
placing it into a bowl carefully.
We drew on it - you scribbles, me a face.
And when you watched cartoons I carved it
- the first creative thing I’ve done in months.
Outside, in the wet garden in clogs
I searched for nightlights in boxes.
In the kitchen I lit our pumpkin,
turned the lights of the house low
and carried it to you like a cake on fire.
Little feet stamping in the dark,
pupils glinting in candlelight.
You sang a baby’s version of Happy Birthday
and tried to blow out the candle.
Spit on your chin,
I blew out the flame and did it again three times.
Tonight we saw the moon.
The ‘twinkle moon’ you called it.
It hid behind the rooves of the houses across the street.
I put you on my shoulder so you could see it,
where I could not see you,
but knew there was magic on your face.
Tonight we turned the lights off in the dining room,
held a bicycle light in our palms.
Made it flash like a discoball that lit you up.
A jubilant face
that understood light and magic and love.