12 September 2008 | Vol. 8, No. 3

Seeds

by BRIANNA KATHLEEN RECKEWEG

We spit the sucked off pulp off one side

of the porch, then spit the pumpkin seeds

into wooden bowls while Dad shook spices

in a Ball jar, something secret, something

different than the secret thing for popcorn

he called "Magic," seasons humming into

open drawers and cookie sheets. We wanted

only to carve but did this work for him.

Worked for the little knives, the smell, the hand

more steady every year, our styles the same.

His faces were always ovals, circles,

unmarked by lines or edge so that his gourds

were never not surprised or awed by life

past our front steps. But I liked patterns,

even boring ones. Just dots, or stripes,

or anything all the way up and around.

One time all the continents and oceans.

One time someone's name a dozen times etched

into orange. One time nothing. Just an empty

lidded bowl. Our mother made costumes,

always too elaborate for one day. The one day

of the year, she said, when you can be someone

else. And we still come home for this, from school,

from jobs and wives, arcing through the hills

to the low Midwest. Supermen. Tin men. Boys.