Erica Reid

After Being Away

I ease into this place as into water.
Some aches relax. Still others quirk, alert.
My body has leaned home so hard it hurts,
but I am not home yet. Life hasn’t stopped here,

& I wait to hear if I will be allowed
to claim this place again. Or, no—be claimed.
The rabbitbrush bends, hushed. I hear my name
in river whispers. Bees converse out loud

with jays. White sprays of poppy prattle where
old monarchs twitch, low ponds itch pink with foam.
So much has changed since I called this place home.
Blasé, vultures recuse themselves midair.

Three seasons paint the trail with foreign inks.
Come here, the wild-eyed helianthus blinks.

Velvet

You are velvet with seeds. You shake, shed,
& never know what comes of it. The world
has its own business, an electric night market,
each doe’s eye a brass coin, & you meet it where
you can. Wind pulls at all you carry, hurries you
to let go. When the moment is right, you
always know. You are heavy with questions,
but tonight the river is high enough to float
your handmade boat. You are the answer
to another’s question. For now, the night says eat
& rest. Some future kicks within your largesse.

Erica Reid is the author of Ghost Man on Second, winner of the Donald Justice Poetry Prize (Autumn House Press, 2024). Erica’s poems appear in Rattle, Cherry Tree, Colorado Review, and more. Erica lives in Fort Collins, Colorado. ericareidpoet.com