Olya

(Chernobyl, 1986)

Little woman the nurses called her –
for the way she brought a lifetime’s grace

to a child’s demeanour, how when she
danced she hardly parted those feet –

her small weight so subtle from ball
to arch, heels barely lifting for each

quick surge she sent up her spine to
fountain arms and sprinkle fingers.

Later she began to move like that doe
they filmed returning from the Reactor:

skinny and slowed into some other,
parallel time.  I’d quarter fruit and she’d

refuse it.  Near the end she drew nothing
but ballerinas.  Beamed at visitors who

befriended her for articles and art
then never came back.  Her sister says –

Two angels took her.  One each hand.
I prefer facts to moondust.  And yet

the intern shakes a methodical head, insists
that with her spine completely rotten

still the impossible happened.  In that long
black sleep before she stopped – before

the machine’s insolent bleep – those
wasted toes stirred.  Practised steps.