Flower Moon in Quarantine

Astrologers say this moon in Scorpio 

is where we welcome the death 


of an old life, an old identity, old ways 

of being. It’s letting ourselves be reborn 

into a new state of consciousness.

I could use a new life, a new conscious. 

This one feels fractured and spills memories 

like guts in a balde of vinho d’alhos. 

This one is a broken, sequined diary. 

This life’s been a one-way trek up 

Misery Mountain, toes curled at the edge. 

Hell, I don’t even know what I mean anymore, 

just that I never imagined The End 

to look like this: breakfast at nine, homeschool 

from 10:30 to 12:30, then lunch, remote 

work and cleaning in between. By dinner, 

I’m clogged dry with coffee and emails, 

lists of flowers I’ll plant and herbs I’ll forget

to take. I blame my follies on this flower moon 

and not the woman breaking my heart. 

I sit in my tub and fill it with tears until 

I am under everything warm and wavy, far 

from the new normal.  Before bed, I’m a hare 

baring her teeth at the Goddess who swallowed

my dreams and left an egg in their place. 

She’ll mistake this for a smile, like everyone else.