Stag at the End of the World

Modern Astrology

My star sign is Stuffed Olive,
but I want to tell you
about all the signs that stars erect.
If you were born in your mother’s ocean
on a Monday
and Oxalis was canoodling with Peter,
you are the Water Log,
mildewed but buoyant.
The Conflagration of Bernadette
applies to twelve stars
who wish to keep their identities
mostly anonymous.
Viewed together from an observatory,
they look like a burning skirt.
If you were born
in the north-north-east octosphere
with at least three months until January,
Bernadette was burning
and you are the Corset Lace,
delicate and binding.
If right before you dropped,
your mother shot out cumulus clouds,
and Valisity, Sphagnum and Quartermaine
had formed a twinkling triumvirate,
you are the Nasal Cannula,
uncomfortable but oxygenating.
Albert’s Magnanimy is an oval
of five stars, in which
Grimbold takes the point.
If you were born when
Grimbold was under the moon,
you are the Cupboard,
hidden space.
Because our sun is just a star
with a really vague name,
if your mother was at
a 40 degree angle to the sun
when she scrapped you,
you are the Question,
abstract and unsure.
There are seven people in the world
repeating over and over,
a snake’s chain of tessellated scales
The Chipped Tooth
incises eight stars
whose layered light-years
might make their constellation arbitrary
were it not so clearly cuspid
from a high, earthen cliff.
If the sky could have bitten
your mother’s eyes when you were born,
you are the Funnel,
wide yet discerning.
Two columns built of
Paloma, Vermouth and Arabia
delimiting other triplets
hold up the Border Bridge.
If your mother sat in the center
when you were born,
you are Ambergris,
excretory and mystic.
Stuffed Olives reek of vinegar and garlic.
We hunt holes in our bodies
and pack them with breath,
with words, our tongues.