Great! A title I can work with,
over an hour ago, I penned ‘Bah, Halloween’.
Sick. I know. I hadn’t had time to stew, properly,
had just gotten my kids out the door, husband, too.

But I’ve stewed now, oh, yeah.
A witch’s stew of emotions,
the best of the worst; I stew well.
Listen, to this sop…

Halloween, circa 1970’s, thrown-together
characters, costume jewelry, capes of sheets;
that’s all we needed.

Chili-macaroni is distinctly Mid-western,
large farm families way to stretch the pot.
Which I made, tonight, this memoried Fall meal.
At the same time, due to my proclivities, I was
doing dishes, laundry, taking garbage out,
getting kids ready – all at the last minute…

Everybody’s gone, now, including me.
And it’s getting harder to come back
to sanity. The Great Rift of soul has widened,
has divided and compounded my human fears
of being alive.

So, I argued, right at the end, with my 9yr. old,
about using a pillowcase as a trick-or-treat bag.
“It’s ridiculous!” I berated her, causing tears,
which I quickly denied her, and me.

And now, I bitterly laugh at myself;
the fifth or sixth car that’s come down our street
hasn’t stopped. “Do they sense something?”
I wonder, not surprised.

I feel kind of leaden, know, so utterly perceive
Time’s movement, I feel fragmented.
I go out to look at my street, knowing what I’d see…

When I was young, and the world was stable,
Halloween was a joy. Now it’s a pain.
Perspectives shift, experiment, mature.
Perspectives have children, and die.

Nobody comes to the door, no goblins or witches.
Until a group of people I know show up. I’m
so desperate for affirmation, I chatter and smile,
run for the camera, take pictures as they chill in the cold.
Sick. It used to be the whole street was lit up at holidays,
tonight, we’re the only ones.

My kids come home, dump their candy
on the living room floor.
I gorge on a few select pieces.

And then I am filled with soul-sickness, go
to the kitchen, and sit on the stool by the open back door.
It’s windy and wild outside, it’s freedom.

But not for me.

Through the evening, I’ve been taking a bite or two
from the pot of chili. From the same spot. This last time,
I think, “Would the chili under the skin’s
uncovered spots be hotter than the opened, eaten place?”
I broke the thin skin, reached in with the spoon,
and find superior heat, where I knew it would be,
even before I tried.

So, I am still here, in this corner, on this stool
in the kitchen, because I am that cycle of heat.
Year after year. And I don’t want to be.

I think my kids have gone to bed, I can get up, now,
and see, though they’ve already seen me,
crying in a corner of the kitchen;
skin cooled, pot broken…

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 10/31/04