All Saints Day
by Katherine Terry

The pumpkin’s wide,
singed jaw
puckers under 5 a.m. frost,
its hollowed eye
fixed past the porch,
on a dog,
ticking in sleep.

The air—
smoked and spiced,
runs up the bone of the
dog’s back,
breaks apart his dream,
and passes through
the lowered gate
of the cemetery.

Several coughs
are heard along the plots.
The dead smother their mumblings
and stretch low,
grasp their bone toes,
and tuck themselves back
in the ground
to watch the
round Jonagolds
drop
into their yard.




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