Jennifer Hanks

Some days I am more microbe than anything—a trace cell within an icy plume. Water-cradled on a cold world where no ghost can reach me. Hydrozoa blushing on lunar floorboards while I rise from thermal vents.
My bed ghosts are common as moon jellies washed up with the sea trash, the coke can rings. They bring me samples from the living world, but it’s not the same as dazzling on a foreign moon. A cell cluster slinking from rock to rock where everything is white. I imagine myself scattered throughout the universe, one origin of life. Casting my glitter-clones far and wide.