LIBRA SEASON, POST PISCES FULL MOON

I'll see you tomorrow (the rest of the night is yours)

As I drifted in sleep last night I heard a small child at the foot of my bed ask, do you know what I looked like when I was younger, their face a miniature moon

I cannot stop minding the breeze this month. Today it is warm even though it has been crisp throughout the week. Right at this moment it's thick, fever dream cozy, the Giant breathing their cloud speckled vapor with a wet sigh down my neck. Voyeuristic, maybe, but not unwelcome

I'm still nursing my lunar hang over from the recent Pisces full Moon that had me shuffling in my robe through stacks and stacks of old photographs, booming with cute baby and sad digital camera teen selfies. One selfie is, striking a pose, a piece of paper, just pretending? scrawled in red ink. I imagine I found the redness clever, like blood. In the background is my plastered bedroom mirror; a cut out of my best friend, an AIM sticker, heavily scented lotion. We're all ugly until we're not, as in, we were never wretched, chin up ..!

And now here I am thinking of children, birth, pregnancy and the dog days of summer. I saw seven roadkill splats on my unexpectedly early way home, my first thought, what are we leading into with the air—

The first whiff of Libra season like a dog sniffing the ass of another dog, carrying the division of union between aphrodisia + fertility vs death/the sacrificed dog. Our dog days draw near an end, only for time to arrive like the sleepy hollow on the back of a race track hound. The track itself, haunted with all its long limbed grey ghosts, burnt papers of red inked anatomy... and the safety-yellow shrill of the industrious crane dips eternally into the earth that gives, and gives

the humid and temperamental first breeze of Libra season finds me perfumed like my grandmother; heavy rose, deep dark well of amber, but me, imported

xox,

Sarah