by Gary Fincke

In April, near the anniversary

Of catastrophe, barn swallows returned,

Flying inside the exclusion zone to

Nest in the radioactive ruins.

Like disciples, the swaddled scientists

Marveled. The work crews, weeks later, toasted

The newly hatched, especially the fledged

With albino feathers after they soared

Like their siblings, devouring insects

With the ravenous hunger of swallows.

For months, the left-behind celebrated

How weak the worst was, and when the swallows,

No exceptions, flew southward, how feeble

Apocalypse could be. But come spring, not

One of the white-flecked birds returned, only

The ordinary nesting and spawning

Their own mutations. Families, by then,

Had moved back to where the world was quiet

And uncrowded, reclaiming rooms inside

The official radius of poison.

And through succeeding springs, no flight with white

Above them, just guards and squatters were left

To praise what they took for heroism,

Even if only among the swallows.

Gary Fincke's poetry collections have won book prizes from Ohio State, Michigan State, Arkansas, Jacar, and Stephen F. Austin. His newest collection is The Necessary Going On: Selected Poems 1980-2025 (Press 53, 2025).