VIVIAN FAITH PRESCOTT
reindeer gorge themselves
Functionality test in a power outage.
Only a test.
Emergency lights blinked and did not stop.
Cooling system overheated.
Reactor number four. The power surged.
Another spike in power. Vessels ruptured,
steam exploded. Graphite moderator
exposed and ignited.
April showers bring radioactivity. One drop.
One touch of isotopes carried by wind
to lakes and streams, through whitefish
and pike, birch and pine forests,
cloudberries, sorrel, and lichen.
Radioactive surveillance helicopters
hover over homes and playgrounds,
follow our children. We run
into our homes, huddle in living rooms,
curtains open at night, watching
spring snow bring cesium 137 isotopes.
It’s half-life is 30 years so we wait
for 30 days before we go outside.
We are carried by wind and spring rains
deep into lichen. We used to harvest
the whole reindeer: entrails, the heart,
liver, antlers, hooves, skin, and blood.
But now we dig burial pits for the deer.
Bloody animal carcasses. We keep
separate food boxes in the freezer:
uncontaminated reindeer meat dyed blue
for our little ones. Another box
for adults: uncle, auntie, cousins.
Grandpa and Grandma eat the radioactive.
Later, governments declare and undeclare:
risk threshold, and marketability limit.
Again, we care for the deer meat.
Once again, use the blood, the head,
put the feet in soup. We make sinew,
prepare skins and furs.
At home, a mother prepares a school
lunchbox for her child, ponders the half-life
of the Sámi matter—which is the time
it takes for one-half of the atoms
in our bodies to decay.
a Sámi has a half-life of 30 years,
then in 30 years one-half of my body
will decay. One half will remain.
Then, in another 30 years, one-half
of my body will decay
leaving one-fourth of me.
Half of what remains will decay
each half-life until I am a particle,
a new unit of radioactive measurement.
One nuclear disintegration per second
that blinks and does stop, a power surge
pulsing like flying on mushrooms
into the northern lights. What remains
within our cells, is how our children
and our grandchildren speak in bequerels—
a new dialect—asking one another,
“Did you walk in the rain last spring?”
Vivian Faith Prescott is a fifth generation Alaskan of Sámi heritage living at her family’s fishcamp on the small island of Wrangell located at the mouth of the Stikine River. She’s the founder and co-facilitator of Blue Canoe Writers and Flying Island Writers in Sitka and Wrangell. Her poetry has appeared in Yellow Medicine Review, Cirque Literary Journal, Poecology, and elsewhere. She’s the author of a full-length poetry collection, The Hide of My Tongue (Plain View Press), and her 3rd chapbook Traveling With the Underground People is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press (July 2017).