Arah Ko


Asha Dore

Procne, Swallowed

Arah Ko

Say what you want about the gods;
when feathers blushed about

my neck, my son was still dead,
my sister’s jaw as vacant as

a tomb; her tapestry bled
upon the wall. What a meal

we made, a work as old as time—
two women curled around

a fire, choking on the smoke,
burning hair, the end

of a line. And when the cry boiled,
wordless from my husband’s

throat, we swallowed the same draught,
beat the same wings, sang

the same songs over Thrace,
or didn’t.

Arah Ko is a writer from Hawai’i. Her work is published or forthcoming in Ninth Letter, Palette Poetry, New Ohio Review, Salt Hill, and elsewhere. She serves as Art and Associate Poetry Editor for The Journal in Columbus, OH. Catch her at