I am Cinderella and I’m looking for my pumpkin
I’ve time to wander, ponder, I’m not looking for a prince
Rather the rolling joy of shiny orange curves
My preferred mode of travel
I try to explain it to my friends:
‘A pumpkin? is that what you’re really looking for?’
‘Is this some kind of metaphor?’
‘Do you have an allergy to normal ways of getting around?’
‘What’s wrong with a nice, orange ACTION bus?’
In someone else’s garden
Musing among the vegetables– was that it?
A zucchini, bin bag black dirigible, to float over the landscape like a squash balloon
Staring down at cities, up at the moon
But there is no room in this world for that kind of princess.
So I went to see the Bone Mother, best I could do,
No godmothers’ set foot in the place that I live.
Baba Yaga had eaten a snail out of house and home
Made a nest inside the shell
Wobbly juices still dripped
Off the walls as she dipped
Her finger in a pool of fat and wrote on my outstretched arm:
So I softly shrieked and left at once to scrub my arm with seven kinds of soap.
It was spring and neither supermarket nor vegetable garden had the right kind of pumpkin
I bought myself a MyWay card and contemplated lettuce as a means of getting around.
When I could bear it no longer I found myself a raincoat and thick rubber gloves and knocked on the freezer door where Baba Yaga was hanging out these days.
One bony arm unfurled from the ice and threw a handful of frozen peas at me before pointing to the ground
I dropped the peas and they rolled away
Down, along, around the garden path
And around behind an abandoned oven–
A giant rotting orange pumpkin carcass.
Removing my rubber gloves I dug into the sopping flesh
with my nails until I found seven seeds.
I am Cinderella and I am waiting for my pumpkin
It’s not about the journey, but what gets you there that matters.
I’ve pressed seven shriveled seeds into seven kind of soil,
I’ve borrowed a bicycle and painted it orange.
And the seeds that don’t turn out to sprout paisley couches or hills hoist clotheslines, just might become vines with furry leaves.
And the ones that aren’t eaten by giant snails, or killed by freezer frost,
Might one day bear me big round fruit
And the ones that aren’t hollowed out to be lived in by witches
Might one day take me places.