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.