1. The calendar tells me I’m a Sagittarius but most mornings
I feel like a Scorpio rising. Astrology cuts across hemispheres—
here I am a Sagittarius or maybe a Scorpio rising but I, too, was
born in the year of the rat, the rejected rodent, the mouse’s ugly
vodka aunt squirreled away for another 12 years.
2. Sex without intimacy, a loveless fuck, and you might as well
not be touching me at all. A tenderness caught in the spaces
between your cells and mine, not quite a part of you nor I and yet
I wonder why it hurts so much.
3. Head wrapped in a constellation of wires, all the tests
come back unremarkable. Just careless cross-firing with no
definitive cause. The Fates are restless, awaiting orders where the
electrocardiogram plugs into the wall, pliers in hand, sharp with
the ever-present threat of a flatline.