Some, O divine pumpkin pie, argue the Patch was your place of birth,
Where pumpkins roam free as mountain beasts.
Others sing of the Kitchen, from whence your ingredients merged
As stars from distant galaxies dance together for Helios.
But I, swinging with might my heavy sword,
Lash at you with two swift thrusts.
Slice! Slice! I am Parra, goddess of the feast!
You quiver slightly as I probe, but for your loss I feel no remorse,
For of your temple you are no proper guard.
I drive my stake to your heart, hot from the conquer,
But with rapid force I plunge to your mercy.
"O nutmeg! O flaky crust of bliss!" I weep,
Honor banished and swordsmanship humbled. My nurse-mother
Gives me a sip of milky ambrosia, skim as the day is long.
Rejuvenated, my eyes flutter open, and quickly become wild with
Rage. I charge at her, armor at tow.
"Why? Why did not you warn me of the poison, the drug?"
"Would that I had never occupied the pie plate, never tasted its
buttery glutton." Thus I speak,
And my nurse-mother whispers an answer: "So that you might learn,
Child, the sinful source of such pleasures.
Many a soldier as you has blamed the Patch, the Kitchen.
But the true taste of pumpkin pie occurs within."
"I do not understand," I seethe, preparing my spade with the fury of
Far-shooting Apollon. "Its maker is to blame! Fair-wreathed Demeter
From whom life is spawn!"
"Its maker is you," she cries. "Until it touches your lips, pumpkin pie
it is not. It is merely a spherical vase of temptation."
I stagger forward, the weight of my armor curving my spine.
"Now I see. It is not the pie that tempts me, but me who tempts the
pie." Wresting with fate, I grasp my spade.
Knuckles as white as swan's down, I hurl the spade to my heart.
"And I shall tempt no more." My final blow has been delivered,
The sun has set for the last time. But the pie –
The pie she lingers, fit for remembrance and another song too.