My maternal grandparents were killed 
by atomic bombs. When a garden of death 
caps bloomed from the dry Nevada soil, 
the Atomic Energy Commission knew 
what their tests would harvest. They knew 

irradiated spores would fly 
over sagebrush and state lines, 
then fall like silent snow 
on little Cedar City, where they would lodge 
in my grandmother’s marrow and my grandfather’s throat, 

where they slept for decades before 
detonating in the nucleus of my family—breaking 
her bones, stealing his voice, and leaving 
two long shadows across 
the scorched pavement of our lives.