Chernobyl Apples, a poem by John Bradley for Svetlana Alexievich

There was an old Ukrainian
            woman at the market
selling her goods.

            Come get your apples!
she calls.
                  Chernobyl apples!

Don’t say that,
                someone tells her.
No one will ever buy

                    radiated apples.
Don’t worry, she says.
             They all buy them.

Some need them
        for their mother-in-law.
Some for their boss.

     There was an old Ukrainian
woman at the market
                        selling her goods.

Come get your mushrooms!
                            she calls.
Chernobyl mushrooms!