by Arah Ko

I want to speak about bodies that changed into new forms. And you,
gods, who altered them… -Ovid



Zeus walks by in a three-piece suit,
smelling like ozone, casual thunder,
money. You remember how he came
to you in the apple orchard, bright
face of a boy, swan feathers in
his hair, how fingers skimmed your
skin and you cried when he crawled
inside. Now his silhouette has shifted,
hard-nosed and high-cheeked, trunk
of marble, feet of stone. Silver
cufflinks separate the animal from
the man. And no, you don’t want
to talk about bodies that change forms,
or the lightning in flesh bottles keeping
them there. The conqueror storms
through glass office doors, ignores
your complaints, knowing he’ll never
sweat or bleed, tear or be changed, not
like you have.

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Arah Ko is a writer from Hawai'i and the author of Brine Orchid (YesYes Books, 2025) and Animal Logic (Bull City Press, 2025). Her work has appeared in American Poetry Review, Ninth Letter, The Threepenny Review, New Ohio Review, and elsewhere. Arah was nominated for Best of the Net and Best New Poets and received her MFA in creative writing from the Ohio State University. Arah edits at Surging Tide Magazine. Catch her at arahko.com.

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