I was twenty-five days old on Halloween, 1982,
swaddled in green in the Montana snow,
spittle on my chin. A dragon’s egg
would be a liberal interpretation
for that costume—or a rather large
mountain lion turd.
I’ve been more adventuresome
in the thirty years since,
having tricked and treated in
a half-melted werewolf mask,
a home-sewn Tyrannosaurus Rex suit,
a Yankees uniform (odd: I was two; my parents were BoSox fans);
I’ve squeezed into a woman’s elf costume,
dressed as a dominatrix,
and was briefly smitten with the idea
of portraying a stillborn child (troubled lad)
before thinking better of it and going as Jay Gatsby instead,
then as Fitzwilliam Darcy,
then my favorite, as Captain Ahab,
replete with a peg leg and a speared, papier-mâché Moby Dick.
Now my May-born son is ready to slobber through his first
All Hallow’s Eve day (eve itself is bedtime).
He’s such an edible boy, my homunculus—
cheeks begging to be bitten,
tuna-pink in the cold—
that we decided he should be
a nigiri roll: sticky rice,
seaweed, toro, and
and pickled ginger.
I’m getting hungry.
I’ll start by nibbling
his pudgy fingers.
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