It’s not what it looks like. It’s never what it looks like.
It’s all wrong
somewhere.
Out in the Ukrainian backwoods, Chernobyl looks
like a ghost town some thirty years later. Intact but
abandoned, vacant—hemorrhaged of humanity. Like in mass
everyone left the city to buy some milk and never returned.
Life in the standstill. Lights left on now burnt out. Meat
thawing on the counter now mold on the counter. Laundry
half folded on the bed. The bath water
ran and ran and ran until the well dried up.
You wouldn’t know that the soil and
the cats and
the dogs
were radioactive
unless you held a meter against it to measure the roentgen.
The hermit crab soft underneath its hard shell.
The mold growing around the core of the shining red apple.
The asbestos hiding in the insulation.
The lead in the paint on the crib.
Sometimes, the things that look the most fine can **** you.
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 2:22 AM UTC
It’s not what it looks like. It’s never what it looks like.
It’s all wrong
somewhere.
Out in the Ukrainian backwoods, Chernobyl looks
like a ghost town some thirty years later. Intact but
abandoned, vacant—hemorrhaged of humanity. Like in mass
everyone left the city to buy some milk and never returned.
Life in the standstill. Lights left on now burnt out. Meat
thawing on the counter now mold on the counter. Laundry
half folded on the bed. The bath water
ran and ran and ran until the well dried up.
You wouldn’t know that the soil and
the cats and
the dogs
were radioactive
unless you held a meter against it to measure the roentgen.
The hermit crab soft underneath its hard shell.
The mold growing around the core of the shining red apple.
The asbestos hiding in the insulation.
The lead in the paint on the crib.
Sometimes, the things that look the most fine can **** you.
title alluding to Voices from Chernobyl
Request permission to use this poem