Even Sagittarius has a human half, makes a certain sort of sense. Every sign

seems to be lifted from a myth or natural occurrence, a woman pouring water,

a crab, a lion, a bull. The bull of being the astrological outcast, this chimera

without wings or claws or beauty. The way the listicles call you industrious

and loyal, assign you the leftovers of the list—the least attractive princess or

the Chris they hate on Twitter. When people ask, What is your sign?

I take it as an accusation. Like they read me coming in, my button-up oxford,

the pocket square that matched my socks, the way I push the chairs back into

place, or disapprove of the loud conversation in the booth across from us, how

nothing is ever quite done, the joy and the sex are always sufficient or, at least,

efficient. I want to make my case that goats can be gorgeous. But I know who

I am. I know I love lonely cliffs, chewing on scraps, and bleating at passersby.