Horoscope

When we looked up the horoscope, from the shelf
We thought of the body, divided into neat divisions
Of time, as it went back, precision-cut in time phases
Folded in deep shelves, as of smiling film heroines
Of yesterday’s glory, their time nicely worn on lips.

 
Horoscopes can be back-read, in fine phases of stars
Ruling stars that seem to say bright things in night air
Withdrawing love at a moment’s notice, in flickers.

 
We have gone back to where it all began in the cloth,
In the smell of placenta, a flickering lamp of midwife
Highly unread, in fears of love, in the shrieks of a baby
In oil, seeking oxygen in the stale wind of closed room.

We then look out from the folds of our swaddle cloth
Looking for her who was the cause celebre of our cry.

 
She who brought us all about is serving her time
In flickering stars, her existence just in thought.
But our horoscope is somehow tied up with hers
Only our time divisions slightly overlapping hers.

 
The stars forsake their protégés in the last phase
When it all ends up on the earth, in fires at dawn
Waters dried up in streams on the sandy river bed,
Wind stoking the fires of trees on its orange fringe.
The horoscope is now just a crackling piece of paper
Waiting to be archived in the stars along with hers.

 

 

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