Arah Ko

Phototaxis 

 

This must

be the punch

line; bruised

 

knuckles

crush mouth your

body soft

against the floor:

 

nightly, insects gather

at your bedlight drinking

              gold, wings scorched

              vampiric humming

              blisters snug

 

against your neck

by morning. Your teeth

            are bleeding

 

& I worry

at the wound. Inside,

 

a moth has laid

her eggs,    

ruined cashmere

 

slung

over my shoulder,

sleepless.

 

Tonight we are the thick

   in this slice

of light, in sex scent,

insect swarm.

Gemini Remember Their Father

 

I am sorry          for deceiving you. When

I shed my feathers, I am just a naked bird-

 

god; just           the shell of the egg. I can almost see

it, now; tremors under translucent       skin, pockets

 

where the light                              passed through.

When the crack comes, transverse sliver like

 

the jagged mouth         of an open quarry, I

tumble out, dark gold              hair, wetly screaming,

 

insensible to the heavy teeth    of a crown.

Or maybe        that was you? The godbird sleeping

 

in your blood, our                    siblings stirring

in their yolks,  our                    father’s yellow

 

eyes watching. What little good            he saw in mortal

offspring: twins limned              by the divine. I

 

can still feel his gaze in shadows, knowing

he is deceiving us; knowing      he is deceived.

Arah Ko is a writer living on an active volcano. Her work has appeared in Ruminate, Rust+Moth, and SIREN, amoung others. When not writing, she can be found correcting her name pronunciation, counting constellations, and contemplating the meaning of life, other than 42.

 

 

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