print previewback MICHELLE CHAN BROWN
Horoscope
My birth
was clerical error.
We were between two wars.
With grungy emperors,
small, crucial
losses were natural.
Some bureaucratic chaos
at the hospital. In yellow,
murderous nurses
ferried their cures
undetected. Surgeons spat
their stats.
The breathing machine,
warbling in a minor key.
On the speakers, Chopin
examined
his skimpy bust
again. Trusting
mother, elevated
like an offering. A séance,
ghosts
she owned
climbing
her spine, still rich
with calcium. Her epidural
made her beautiful,
brought out her colors.
It was the year of the vulture.
Our future
starred
meat. That notion—
soul—like chloroform,
a gourmand’s stinking quilt.
Muslin, cheesecloth, gauze, eyelet.
We will miss being flesh.
It’s kitsch,
says the press, pushing away
bowls dark with Jell-O, tray
after tray. Whatever
it is, I want to starve
or feed it. Optimistic,
this thirst.
No oasis. No stubborn body to medicate.
Nothing to do but wait.
Take out the impatient organs.
That’s some desert we’re burning in. 