April, 1986

by Elena Croitoru

My mother felt her stomach 

& swallowed an iodine pill 

as if life could be taken back

by the mouthful. One never knows

if the limbs & torso will turn out

melded together, she said

& we didn’t understand 

what she meant but took

our pills with slightly bitter 

water. In lead-heavy sentences,

my mother told us Chernobyl 

was the machine-made god pulling

down our side of the continent

& although the tower blocks

swallowed us whole, their walls

wouldn’t protect us, just as

they never hid us from anyone either

& we couldn't help think

of all that concrete poured for nothing. 

My mother said that every cloud 

could carry radioactive decay

into our tender lungs

& we'd have no choice

but to keep it inside our bodies

as if it was one of the few things

we'd ever been given. We learned

our faces would swell & test the love 

of those around us, so then 

we'd know it was real although

we wouldn't have a chance

to live it once again. Even those

who would mourn their dead

would pick up a slow death

while standing by their graves & that

made us understand how much

of our killing went unobserved.

We knew we were too soft

for this world & there were no rules

for keeping anyone alive anymore.