a poem by Victoria Mier
I don’t—can’t— trick or treat
not like I used to, not anymore.
Now I must
braid my hair with woodsmoke,
lick rosemary off my fingertips,
paint my face with candle wax—
but they won’t let me out like this,
not on these tree-lined streets,
not in my mother’s neighborhood.
They’ll confiscate me—
I don’t look like a costume
and the children are frightened.
So I sheath my wands
I unbraid my hair
I go home
I sit beside the bonfire
and I knock on all the doors of myself
until the frames rattle like leaves.
Victoria Mier (she/her) is a writer, witch & bookseller. She is published extensively as a reporter, but has only recently begun submitting her strange tales to fiction outlets, like Luna Luna Magazine & A Witch’s Craft. She hopes this poem made you uncomfortable. You can follow her on Instagram at @victoria_mier.