Arah Ko
KUMIHO 구미호
Little cub, baby fox, devious
one, have you eaten? My grand
mother brandishes garnished
banchan plates, decisive
as a general. Our hands
are delicious, she says, everything
we touch will taste so good. Her fingers
brush my lips, cup the apples
of my cheeks, thread through
my hair. Halabuji laughs, his grey
mustache dancing on his upper lip.
Baby fox, he says, you’re growing
tails, how clever you are. In legends,
each vixen tail is a measure
of cunning, centuries lived,
organs stolen. Who does not fear
the hungry spirit ghosting through
their walls, dressed as a bride,
her lethal yeowoo guseul swallowing
your life force? The deepest kiss:
a devouring. First, halabuji said I had
one, then three, now nine bushy
tails. You look like me, halmuni
laughs, old fox to young cub. Although
I wonder if I am fox enough,
sharp enough, my eyes not shaped
like hers. Halmuni bares
her teeth. What ravenous love
does she wish for me? My darling child,
she whispers, oh mischievous one,
how many hearts have you eaten?
Arah Ko is a writer from Hawai'i. Her recent work is forthcoming or published in Salt Hill, New Ohio Review, the Margins, Hyphen, Sugar House Review, and elsewhere. Arah is an MFA candidate in creative writing at the Ohio State University, where she serves on the staff of the Journal. When not writing, Arah can be found correcting her name pronunciation or stress baking.