It’s the contradiction that hides
the danger: tentacles like vermicelli,
transparent hair, vanish in the shining
waters. Blink, and you miss the luminous
gelatin head, its boxy ripple beneath
the waves. Aposematism is nature’s mercy:
who wouldn’t know to fear ice
blue centipede legs, hotrod flashes for dart
frogs, coal-bright flicker of coral snake?
But how do you tell water
from water? Holding your finger to the mirror,
plunging into the sea, prayer? Our bodies
are built for threat, recoiling from bear
caves, cleaned bones, venomous tongues.
I saw a bloom of them like glass stones
melted against the beach, a smack of crystal
slime easy to distinguish out of the tide,
on dry sand. Some lessons are harder
to learn—the greatest pains of my life
I couldn’t see coming.
–
Arah Ko is a writer from Hawai’i. She has been nominated twice for Best New Poets and her work is published or forthcoming in Threepenny Review, Ninth Letter, Palette Poetry, New Ohio Review, Salt Hill, Nimrod, Colorado Review, and elsewhere. Arah received her MFA in creative writing from the Ohio State University in 2023 where she served on the staff of The Journal.