by Vanessa Rose
The pumpkin looms above the clivia
up and over our fence, rooted in soil
that has bloomed a thousand bongs.
I should push it back, gather up
its desiccating leaves, its winding vine,
and bundle it along the top of the palings
as evidence of the neighbour’s transgression.
But then I might miss the moment -
the inevitable gravity of gourd.
It falls without me seeing it, thudding
at night into the ground
irrigated by federation houses.
Months later, I find it under the glossy straps
of the clivia, at the tail-end of a dog
rooting out a blue tongue.
Pumpkin, grey-worn and wilted,
what dreams did you seed in your last
days, hidden from the sun?
Vanessa Rose writes poetry whenever she can. She is a member of Writing NSW and is currently undertaking a poetry feedback course in Sydney Australia. When not writing, Vanessa is a researcher at a not-for-profit social purpose centre based in Australia, Singapore and the UK.
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