If it hurts to touch it,
Stop touching it.
And let your inattention be
The space into which it dissipates.
But if it swells up hard and livid,
Gut it like a pumpkin.
Plunge your hands in flesh and seeds.
Reach into the hollow and scrape.
Light it up from the inside, ghoulish—
Put it on the porch for the neighbors to see:
Look at this grinning thing I made.
Now bare your teeth. Grin back.
This lurid reflection scares no one, save you.
Let the days march, coming and leaving.
Let the weight of an Indian summer
Dispel your longing and loss
Like motes in slanting sunlight.
Sit with it while the nights turn chill.
Watch it cave in, shrivel up and stink.
The day you no longer recognize it,
Throw the whole mess into the bin
And get on with your Thanksgiving.