Horoscope

My birth

was clerical error.

We were between two wars.

With grungy emperors,

small, crucial

losses were natural.

Some bureaucratic chaos

at the hospital. In yellow,

murderous nurses

ferried their cures

undetected. Surgeons spat

their stats.

The breathing machine,

warbling in a minor key.

On the speakers, Chopin

examined

his skimpy bust

again. Trusting

mother, elevated

like an offering. A séance,

ghosts

she owned

climbing

her spine, still rich

with calcium. Her epidural

made her beautiful,

brought out her colors.

It was the year of the vulture.

Our future

starred

meat. That notion—

soul—like chloroform,

a gourmand’s stinking quilt.

Muslin, cheesecloth, gauze, eyelet.

We will miss being flesh.

It’s kitsch,

says the press, pushing away

bowls dark with Jell-O, tray

after tray. Whatever

it is, I want to starve

or feed it. Optimistic,

this thirst.

No oasis. No stubborn body to medicate.

Nothing to do but wait.

Take out the impatient organs.

That’s some desert we’re burning in.