E.B. Schnepp | You're not supposed to pet the dogs of Chernobyl

E.B. Schnepp is a poet hailing from rural Mid-Michigan who currently finds herself stranded in the flatlands of Ohio. Her work can also be found in The Laurel Review, Yemassee, and QU, among others.

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Also by E.B. Schnepp: Anamenesis I’d Think of a Pretty Metaphor, but Instead I Think I’ll Just Come Out and Say Bone-Terrarium

Previously in Glass: A Journal of Poetry: Heavenly Bodies

March 2019

E.B. Schnepp

You're not supposed to pet the dogs of Chernobyl

— for Amelia I was one of them, a glass delusion, a swallowed glass piano. Afraid I could only shatter. Fractals under my skin itched my body translucent — the only cure was to set me on fire, show me I was never that kind of fragile; side effects include an incurable feralness. Don’t touch me. In lieu of a pyre, a poet taught me to swear, gave me all the words a mother couldn’t. Pull back my lips, see what I’ve learned, my teeth. They’re sharp and this is good. See, she’s given me back my claws, shown me how to use them; to paint them and to let the paint chip. Don’t touch me. Remember, softness is a honey trap. I will tear you open, toxic the wound. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.

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