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.