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E.B. Schnepp.jpg


E.B. Schnepp

Bury me in the grave of a woman with the same name 

if you think she wouldn’t mind how we share a stone, a patch, a name.


My name was stolen off the back of some girl’s varsity jacket, held secret 

under mother tongue for nine months, tucked under my skin; became my name.


I was sixteen when my syllables grew to much for any tongue, tasted 

wrong, even my mother tried to change it; I’ve never belonged to any name.


I became interchangeable, features made to shift, subtly re-arranging 

myself, I’ll come to anything you call my name.


I gave my name to a fae creature and they made me changeling, made me 

wood and spore marionette, wild and easily rotten I no longer need a name.


They all start so beautiful, blonde and blue-eyed, but there’s no telling how 

they’ll twist, when potato sack skin will begin to rot. It’s best to not give them a name.


It was December when I found mine, cotton yellowing from decades under thin skin 

that tore, burst weak at the seams; along my spine, in sharpie, what you called my name.


Painted blood-ruddy I watched violets spring through sidewalk cracks 

where I’d spilled myself. I try not to think too hard about the way they knew my name.


I lore holder, good creature, told nothing my name; stopped turning at Erika

sung low on the wing; magic bled away so quickly after I refused my name.

E.B. Schnepp is a poet currently residing in Chicago. Their work can also be found in Up the Staircase, Lumiere, and Roanoke Review, among others.

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