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.