American Radiance by Luisa Muradyan via West Branch

There is a radiance the way the firefly
breaks his body and you stand in the shadows
of that light,
small, born of things.
It is how you chose which package of meat
to take. How you remember the Soviet grocery lines
here is a spoon, here is a fork, here are two hands cupped
together in prayer. How your mother held
the chicken as a child
arms wrapped around,
tomatoes heavy in her pockets,
breaking the neck in the glint
of moonlight. An empty store
on fire with florescence, the moment when
you stand in an aisle of lamps
and believe in the darkness.