“At the witching market” & “Bride-Body, Momento Mori” by E.B. Schnepp
At the witching market
I found stalls, fetuses dried for luck. the stillborn fruit of another animal’s womb; tucking one small hypothetical-beast in cupped palms I felt anything but holy.
Bride-Body, Momento Mori
The first thing he’ll take is your name,
followed by your fingerprints, dental records,
the things that distinguish one body
from the next. You are bared for him;
a bride—your bridesmaids wear black,
they mourn you already. Your groom,
more bird than man, a vulture,
his walls are lined with women,
none of them whole; partially eaten,
He will eat his way out of your womb,
slick-viscous, he’ll walk the world bloody.
In the bridal suite, his hands at your throat,
you could mistake it for love—
your reality, asphyxiation.
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 Glass, Maudlin House, and Hypertrophic Lit, among others.