When I was twelve, I found the carcass of a copperhead in the gutter outside our house. It was dead, but still, its skin danced. There was life somewhere inside.
So I took a stick from the bonfire in the backyard, its tip red and smoldering, and I held it to the snake’s skin, which sizzled, and split, and maggots tumbled from the fissure.
I was mesmerized, jealous: here the snake, the temptation, so easily vanquished. How could I achieve the same?
How to break this body apart, so no man could blame me for his downfall? How to split this skin away from hands always searching for my fleshy core?
To dance without having to live—it felt like a secret as sacred as Icarus wings, as Sisyphus stones. “Tell me,” I begged, jabbing with my stick. The maggots caught fire, curled up, and blew away.
Savannah Brooks earned her MFA from Hamline University and worked the first decade of her career in publishing. After contracting a disabling case of Long COVID, she left the field to focus on teaching, writing, and reviewing. Her work has been featured in the Guardian, Calyx, and Prime Number Magazine, among more than a dozen other publications. You can find out more at savannahbrooks.com.
Photo © Gundula Vogel. All rights reserved. 
