Author: Krista Borst

The Pumpkin

Split open over
double yellow lines
of the black
a speckled pumpkin
away from my boot.

Now cracked apart at the
Chunks of tiffany blue and
orange lay strewn across the asphalt.

Seeds dance
Ripped from their shell.
Prance to their silent music
A first and final symphony.

There’s a certain kind of feeling, to stand
in the middle of the road.
Free to corrupt

We stand on top of our
looking down at a skinny trail
of seeds and guts.

Harmless destruction.
Thoughts slip.
Fields stretch on and on
Our mangled pumpkin proof of what has
come and gone



IMG_3125 (1)Krista Borst is an English and History double major at SUNY Geneseo.  She is from Brooklyn, NY.  Enjoys watching Marvel movies multiple times in the theater.  She wishes  she had time to read all the books she brought with her to college, which are now dusty under her bed.  When walking around campus on an adventure with her trustee companion Isabel Keane, they kicked a pumpkin up a hill to distract themselves from breathlessness, which was the inspiration for this poem.