Jaiden Geolingo

Mothlight

Light hypnosis is what I call it. How I fall
deeper into a flaxen bulb, my family clutching

onto each other’s dried out wings. A few days ago
the Light was pregnant with flies and not us. Take this

as a sign to leave early, into a stygian road where
you stagger with other free-willed moths. At the end

of the asphalt, there is no Light to survive from,
save from the sphere of white in the sky. We orbit

ourselves every time they’re eaten alive. Around the aluminum
of lamps, we form rings of worship like something merciless.

We could pretend we’re at the bayou. Seep through the crab-dug holes,
go somewhere the Light won’t reach us. Look at us. We’re so small.

We could form a militia, a prayer. Then, like our mothers,
we pound ourselves against the water and scream, moth reflection

synonymous to firebombs. All this to say that we’re better
than being dragged in. Listen, we gotta fight back. Listen,

anything bright is made of metallurgy. We can’t get lost.
We can’t get baptized. We’re more than cemeteries lit up

by flies. We play pretend to ward off the Light, to waltz
in black rooms. This is how we inhale. This is how we cling to dust.

Jaiden Geolingo is a Pinoy writer based in Georgia, United States, and the author of How to Migrate Ghosts (kith books, 2025). His work has been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation, the Georgia Council for the Arts, Bennington College, and the Alliance for Young Writers & Artists, among others. A finalist for the Georgia Poet Laureate’s Prize and a 2025 National YoungArts Winner, his writing appears or is forthcoming in diode poetry journal, The Poetry Society, Atlanta Magazine, The Shore, and elsewhere.