I see mars outside
the plane, bright
and ruddy against black otherworldly sky,
antimatter to small problems.

When I was born, both
venus and mars were in Scorpio—
war and love and pain all
rolled into an herbal cigarette,
burning cloves spicy on the back
of my crying new throat.

There’s always been an ache of conflict,
a cursed Libra sun,
permanently out of balance.
It crawls through the scales of my lungs,
constricting airflow until
breathing feels more like drowning.
Cleanse them like spell jars,
dipping incense into the cavities of my chest.

I’ll follow mars all the way to the cemetery
by the railroad tracks, bringing my own
momento mori in the feel of bones
wet under my skin.

My ancestors are buried here, the first
ones from Germany to come to Kentucky.
The church is long gone, the headstones
tended by volunteers, descendents.

900 Catholics here still had star signs—
Maybe I still have god.

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