I’m miffed with my astrologer
She chimes month in, month out
Start here, start here
New day, new intentions, new life
I want to believe
I want to commence
I want to stride forward
and my feet stay put.
My life is a tar baby
here we go again.
Everything is before me:
The boiling resolutions,
evaporating troubles,
it’s a message on a loop
the great wheel of planet and stars
kaleidoscopic,
a forecast in fractals
There are water weeds in the cosmic wading pool.
My psyche drags me in by the hair.
She says, take these gossamer wings
of synchronicity and mishap.
I put them on and fly lopsided
as a battered Luna moth.
Things out of place cling to my ankles
like bad choices – I mean, lessons.
They clutch my conscience –
remoras riding a shark.
She has advised sizing up the tangent
of Saturn and Pluto,
says, here is the axis mundi
for the pink moon.
I’m craving more human moments
full of stubbed toes and indolence.
The rainbow bridge hovers overhead
and I’m seeking days less celestial.
My inner fish has dug its new toes
into the sulfur mud while
my astrologer walked around the corner.
And Mercury has touched down,
begged me, please help him take
off his winged slippers,
so exhausted with all his duties,
financial gain and commerce,
eloquence, messages, divination,
travelers, boundaries, luck,
trickery and thieves.
It was a laundry list that
stretched many lifetimes.
My digits rippled the water
between us. I was not in a mind
to help. My astrologer would be back
any minute, and he should seek
the comfort of muddy low places.
At least I helped him take his slippers off,
set them in the weeds,
Take a load off, take a sabbatical
I told him. We all have times
the universe seems impossible.
He knew exactly what I meant.
The retrograde, oh the retrograde.
The retrograde, oh the retrograde.
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