Chernobyl Was the First Garden
They called it uninhabitable,
but the wolves didn’t ask for clearance.
The trees didn’t file paperwork.
The boars came back
rooting through fallout like it was just dirt.
And maybe that’s the truth
we weren’t ready for:
that the earth does not mourn us.
She waits.
And when we are quiet,
she grows.
What they called wasteland
became refuge.
Not because it was safe—
but because it was free.
No borders.
No billboards.
No landlords.
Just rot, and root,
and everything wild enough to love ruin.
While foxes nest in reactor shells,
I think of my body—
called broken, toxic, too far gone—
still waking up with sunlight in its teeth.
Still housing small, soft things.
If Chernobyl can bloom
with nothing but time and silence,
maybe I can too.
Kaycee Painter is a queer, disabled poet from Dalton, Georgia. Her work lives at the intersection of chronic illness, generational trauma, and survival. She writes from the body, its memory, its limitations, its quiet defiance, and often explores what it means to endure in a world that was not built for you. Her poems have appeared in queer anthologies and community zines, and she is currently working on a chapbook about disability, exploring the politics of pain, access, and the quiet rituals of staying alive.
