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April 12, 2023

Aries Season

Frances Klein

It’s Aries season and I’m crying

in the checkout line, abandoning


six frozen pizzas on the conveyor,

bulling through the store tearblind


in an instant at the sound of

the Baha Men barking out


of the speakers. It’s been happening

this way since you left us: one note


and I’m memory-drenched, no thought

but how you used to rock


to this song so fast, no dogs

of war could ever catch you.


Mars in its far-off rotations was never

so constant as you, until you weren’t.


I buy a telescope, plot our birth charts,

scour each constellation, each galaxy,


hunt for you like the one sheep

lost from the 99. Where are you?


I can’t find your red, distant glint

on any chart, in any quadrant of my sky.