by Ella Standage

supermarket treasure. find me beneath
fluorescent lights. i melt orange, glow incandescent.
i could be the 5pm sun, horizon-swallowed, kitchen
witchcraft rolling off the dim-lit countertop. i hit
the ground and carry on—i don’t know where to stop.
it is easy to get under my skin, to examine my earth—
space station sights of city streets splayed in spider-silk—
but pulling me apart is a matter of instinct.

i am light rearranged into flesh. i know the secrets
inside edison bulbs. my schematics are drawn up in
DNA / midsummer magic / i am made of luck.
i could be a cross-section of the crescent moon
or a heart’s soft, segmented reception room.
when it is winter, i am june.