Horoscapes: Aquarius

 

 

The kind of girl who makes furious snow angels only to lop their wings off with a stick. The baby is always plastic in your dream, there are cogs that turn but no winder. In the room that still smells of fresh paint, thirteen kites crawl across sunset like centipedes wriggling through dirt. At dinner you smear the conflict: pass the gravy, fling the fork, wipe your goddamn mouth off, at least, just to paint the illusion of manners. One must have mighty orbits to muster gravity! How an upside-down house shifts, swerves, always in limbo. In the shower where you wring your wings, he hears the sound of something that both is & isn't the wet glug of grief stampeding down the drain. Tomorrow the UPS man will deliver a late shower gift from your mother—a dark-stained bassinet. You’ll say you still can’t bring yourself to bury it in the backyard. Some afternoon he’ll finally paint over the room, any color other than blue. Hustle your blood, darling bride: Soon you’ll wear these vows like crucifixion.