(History of the Church, vol. 6, pages 609-610)

      I was back in Chernobyl
      to view my old farm
      which I found grown up
      with weeds and brambles
      and neglect. 
 
Nearby control rods
sought to control
fission, splitting atoms
asunder that God had joined.
      Reactors
to be acted upon, chain reactions,
numbered isotopes: the same
but not the same.
 
      I went into the barn
      which was missing a floor
      wondering how to remove
      the curse upon it
      when a company
      of furious men rushed in
      to pick a quarrel.
 
After the exodus
they enlarged the Exclusion
Zone to include this place. 
During the aftermath we heard
‘the New Safe Confinement
will shelter you.’ But it couldn’t
contain everyone.
      Suspicion
of contamination spread.
No one really knew
because they classified the intelligence
after the evacuation.  I chose to believe
it was an accident.
 
      Their leader ordered me
      to leave the barn
      but I told him the farm
      was mine.  I had not sold
      what had been given as a gift.
 
How many ions were free
radicals—how many lost 
to the treatment?
      At one time, like them,
I trusted the promise
of potassium iodide.  But the
stockpiles were empty
as sickness deepened. 
 
      I had no desire
      to dwell in the barn in its present state
      as their leader threatened me
      with the destruction
      of my body.
 
My body? I cared nothing for it,
the cancer gone
too far.  But here they craved
forms of energy: power
fueled from rubles, radiation.
      O Chernobyl, Chernobyl,
that briefly shone
like lightning: darkness
leaves you desolate.
 
      Suddenly a rabble filled the barn
      and drew their knives,
      sharpening their swords
      for an execution of some kind. 
           I left the barn
           listening to their
           screeching cries
           as grief
           grew like mud
           around my ankles.