Pumpkin

Who couldn’t love
a fat orange ball,
its innocent plumpness?

Rippled flesh
the colour of leaves
the colour of cheese.

All the rage in October
but in November,
punctured, sunken.

Who pushed a knife
into its face,
carved features of hate?

Pumpkins huddle at the market,
frost glistens
on their green stems.

Can you carry that?
the cashier asks doubtfully,
but I hug mine home.