Sep/Oct 2016 • Vol. XXXVIII No. 5 Poetry |

Radiation

"Zone of alienation," they designate the area around Chernobyl, where after thirty years, some life's come back to life: a kind of tree, a kind of bird, but resurrection is contingent and tentative here, where radiation seeps into marsh and air and wood, where radiation burns silently and with great secretiveness in humans, trees, and animals and plants, mutation in the blood, in DNA, familiar, friendly cells combusting jar-ringly like bombs concealed in low-profile packages.      The packages are people, of course, people contained in their protective but porous skin, that sweet and salty, sometimes bruised casing that tells us where we start and stop in space. Without that basic information we might lose our places and, confused, occupy already occupied spaces, causing much merriment and no little dismay, depending on how you interpret the situation. But no—the situation is too sad, too final, to recast as farce or romance. Albino swallows dip and soar above nuclea

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Geophysics

By Kelly Cherry

"Zone of alienation," they designate the area around Chernobyl, where after thirty years, some life's come back to life: a kind of tree, a kind of bird, but resurrection is […]

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