So in a desperate final attempt to improve
on that kind of discourse, I've written this prose poem
called "Scorpio."
And like something you might read in Carol Richter's column
or in any form of popularized astrology,
it begins on a very general level that
could refer almost to anybody.
"Scorpio."
"You are unpredictable, obsessed by sex and death,
eager to assert your individuality.
You can see I haven't excluded anybody yet.
You can be devious but charming.
You will not be invited to the party.
You carry your young on your back because your tail cannot
reach there.
And, instinctively, they know that.
You wish they would get off.
If you were born today, you would
have been a great basketball player,
except for the accident.
Today's Scorpio daughter will be beautiful and intense.
When her wishes are granted, she's in trouble.
When two of you are gathered in my name,
your tails will snarl in the air like incestuous lariats.
You should take care of that pressing financial obligation
today.
You have forgot something.
What do you think it is?
You are a spine, whose legs have failed to evolve into ribs.
Your conversation is only about you.
You never mention me.
I am the one who made you what you are.
It's my fault. Tonight should be devoted to romantic pursuits.
Whom shall we chase?
We will not be invited to the party.
You ought to forget about me.
You tend to be careless of others.
You are the only one I have ever loved."