Arlene Ang

in a time of snow

doves are labium pink
not grey or white

their feathers
are cocoons

split open
on rounded lips

that is kiss
you say

something I can
never learn

from mirrors
or with my own hands

i say
teach me to hop

on red legs
gather worms

with my mouth
digest pebbles

enough to ease out
yellow blood

tonight you reply
there's too much fog

wetness would drench
my wings flaccid


Rocking his chains to sleep,
he dreamt of fire again.

His mind picked up the torch
as if already drunk on heat.

It was his recurring desire
on this rock he'd hated

enough to call home. Behind
fevered eyes, he conspired

to burn Mount Olympus to ground.
Afterwards he would singe

the wings of his vultures and
roast them slowly on a spit.

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