If the Oak Ridge–rooted poems in The Robot Scientist’s Daughter—with their irradiated childhood landscapes and a father’s work inside a lab—hit home, you’ll be riveted by Full Body Burden. Iversen grew up next to the Rocky Flats plutonium plant, and her memoir braids family life with fires, cover‑ups, and contamination maps the way Gailey braids memory with isotopes and kudzu. You’ll find the same haunting blend of tenderness and alarm as she uncovers how a community was kept in the dark—echoing the book’s mix of wonder and dread at what science can do to a place and a girl’s body.

You connected with the speaker who grows up in Oak Ridge under a nuclear scientist father’s gaze; Life on Mars offers a resonant mirror. Smith elegizes her father, a NASA engineer, while reaching for galaxies, dark matter, and pop‑sci echoes—much like Gailey’s fusion of reactors and robots to parse identity. Poems such as “My God, It’s Full of Stars” hold the same tender, speculative awe you felt when the “robot daughter” persona looked past cooling towers toward the unknown, asking what kind of self is forged in the glow of science.

If you loved how Gailey threads Persephone‑like underworlds and pop‑myth into Oak Ridge’s irradiated backdrop, Autobiography of Red will feel like a revelation. Carson recasts the Geryon myth as the life of a red‑winged boy navigating first love and harm—mythic heat and ash standing in for what can’t be said outright, much as the “robot daughter” persona masks the human cost of the lab and the landscape. The book’s luminous fragments capture that same charged fusion of fable and reality.

The way The Robot Scientist’s Daughter moves in poem‑sized scenes—from creek beds near Oak Ridge to the hum of equipment—maps beautifully onto Kimmerer’s essay vignettes. A botanist and Potawatomi writer, she braids lab methods with stories like “Skywoman Falling” and “The Three Sisters,” offering the same intimate, restorative attention to place that Gailey gives her Appalachian woods and fallout fields. You’ll appreciate how brief, radiant chapters gather into a healing counterspell for environmental harm.

Gailey’s poems weigh the bright promise of the lab against Oak Ridge’s toxicity and secrecy; Oryx and Crake pushes that ethical tension to a devastating extreme. As Snowman remembers Crake’s gene‑splicing empire—pigoons, designer plagues, corporate labs—you’ll hear the echo of the book’s questions about what scientists owe to the living world and to their children. It’s the same moral pressure point, just turned from isotopes to biotech: what happens when brilliance outruns responsibility?