Erica Reid

Holy Radishes & Other Acts of Desperation

Close the drapes & cast a circle of salt.
(I am not a witch. I’m simply lonely.)
Call up your father’s ghost. He can hear
but he cannot answer back.

I am not a witch, I’m just lonely.
Perhaps that is the story of every witch.
My father will not answer back,
which is a shame. I have questions.

Perhaps that is the story of every witch:
bored & ignored. You can tap the power
of your shame. Write your questions
in that pretty notebook you’ve been saving.

Bored? Ignored? Try tapping the power
of Making Shit Up. O holy radishes,
O pretty notebook. Make sure you’re saving
fingernail clippings & menstrual blood

for Making Shit Up. Now hold the radishes
high, chant He will never hurt me again.
Toss fingernail clippings. Menstrual blood
helps us remember we are animals.

Chant He will never hurt me again.
Maybe he will, maybe he won’t—
but it helps our animal selves to hear it.
Shout it loud enough to snuff a candle out.

Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t.
He definitely will. I am not a witch.
Say what you wish, then snuff your candle out.
Cry until you have no salt. Open the drapes.
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Years, years! This is what it has come to:
I mailed a letter & the answer was bored silence.
My father etc. would rather not read &
I honested myself out of his family photo.
My grandfather died & nobody told me.
I discover so much by accident.

My grandfather died & nobody told me.
What is a grandfather anyway?
Only a father’s father, right? How many do I need?
How many can I bore to death? Bye, Walter—
I didn’t get to tell you what you never asked
& your great-grandkids would not have played football.

How many do I need? This suitcase is small
so I choose my best books & the clock on the wall.
I’m not running—no one’s looking for me—
I am preparing for fire. If you don’t start one I will.
Might as well do something worth being blamed for.
I sold my father’s watch. He never owned a watch.

If you don’t start a daisy chain, I will.
Don’t try to keep me from ruthlessly flowering.
This isn’t his field. He never owned a field.
You will not find your copper coins here, grandfather.
You did not drop your silver watch here, father.
The only loose change in this field is me, face like a dime.

Erica Reid is a Colorado poet, editor, and critic. Her debut collection Ghost Man on Second won the 2023 Donald Justice Poetry Prize and will be published by Autumn House Press in early 2024. Erica’s poems will appear in Rattle, Birmingham Poetry Review, Colorado Review, and more. ericareidpoet.com