Party of Ghosts
Beth Suter

like All Hallows’ Eve
             the night my son entered
the world of the living

big as a prize turnip
             he carved me, scooped me out
a birth-o-lantern

scrying his mirror eyes
             I gave one breast to the feast
extra milk for the dead—

no longer a spring lamb
             he comes down off the mountain
wooly and full-grown

I’m last year’s scarecrow
             dressed as a mother
carrying a dirt cake

I look for matches
             and you, my love,
dressed as a dad to match

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