Red Plastic Alchemy
We lifted the seat of the red ride‑and‑go
its sacred hollow our cauldron.
With cupped hands, we carried rainwater,
mud, petals, the odd wriggling thing or two.
We stirred with sticks, serious as witches
before we knew the name.
Wayne, the eldest, wanted more;
I shushed him, trusted my rising five‑year crone.
We were our own triad,
one with summer, mischief,
no fear of consequence.
Lee, the youngest, our chief taster.
We fed it to him like a dare, like a spell.
The world paused.
He spat it out, ran off
on sturdy legs, laughing.
Decades later I claimed myself witch,
learning to ride hedges and guard the liminal.
Some of you didn’t make potions as kids,
and honestly it shows.
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