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poetry
SECOND PRIZE WINNER - SENTINEL LITERARY
QUARTERLY
POETRY COMPETITION (OCTOBER 2009)
Pumpkin Seeds
By
KATIE METCALFE
My
sister visits just before sunset, smelling of beefsteak
tomatoes,
sun
cream and roasted pumpkin seeds.
She hugs
me, delicately, like a new puppy. I worry about the
possibility her coco butter sun cream will leech into my
pores.
Dad is
overexcited, apparently, at the first sight of his
mushrooms.
She
shows me a video on her phone of the tiny white pinheads
before
picking a freezer bag of pumpkin seeds from her tight jeans
pocket.
I watch
her thighs tremble.
At home,
she usually scatters seed debris over the table or floor,
but
collects them in her palm this time. She can spend hours
trying
to
perfect the technique of splitting husks open
between
her two front teeth, prising the inner seed
out of
its shell with the tip of her tongue.
We all
used to do it together, on a Saturday night in front of
Gladiators.
Chuck
the scraps into the fire, listen to them screech.
I feel
ashamed for her coming here, adhering to the family rule
of
visiting me, a tedious, painful chore.
She
places one on the bedrest table. It sits,
its
scary nutritional value watching me.
Chores
done, she doesn’t kiss or hug
and
leaves like a possible dream.
I wrap
the seed in wads of tissue and pelt it towards the bin.
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