Today is the new moon at 13 degrees Libra (I'm getting a little tired of hearing about Libra, are you?) with Mars squished to the Sun and moon like a half melted milkcrate stuck to the flame. In the clutches of Venus in Scorpio, this new moon is square my 13 degree Capricorn moon and with little thought I ordered 13 ink refills in size 0.38 mm for my favorite pen this morning.
It's the third day of trying to deep clean my apartment as one thing or another gets hung up— running out of paper towels, wondering if I'm pregnant, considering the route I'd take to the pharmacy to buy a test, finding blood on my robe, buying my third latte of the week. There's the celestial drop cloth hanging low and heavy like worn milk. Cloudy thoughts with too much steam to understand if the pot is empty or not.
The new moon is the dark moon and the dark moon is infinity. The eel is, also, infinity but in the way that the void has it's own sharp beak. I think of the dark moon and I think about how my body already teems with burial. Yes, we are dark in the Libra moon and sure, we think of Venus and see love/harmony/light; but Venus is in part beauty and beauty is often more empyrean delight/humanly terrible than we would like to have it. A gemmy berry with spears for hairs asking you at the crossroads— who gave you eyes like that? said you could keep them?
My moon, that crescent slice of lemon/ I consider buying a small just for lemon pitcher pickled heart/ rippled lump of shot from the thief and I think
I could be a paper figure screwed together with gold bolts, moving shakily due to all that I host—
mitochondria, dumb bambi, blood cell, bone, bacteria—
together we are the house of us, full of citation, and our activity animates my body above and beyond as was, as is, as will be
xo,
sarah