I am not the best lesbian. I don’t say this
because of what rests between.
I mean astrology is beyond me.
I’m a December baby,
Sagittarius. I know this.
But that’s all I have.
The rising, the set.
I went from one cell to two?
I can’t name it.
My chart is incomplete. And so, we add this to
my list of not-accomplishments, alongside
graduating and coming out to the kind couple
who run the corner store
and sometimes compliment my nails.
117 Lomia, too, has compliments to give.
Cute socks, she says.
Good job getting up
before noon. Those jeans are out of your world.
She hovers in my constellation. We share it
like sisters sharing a pillow
in the back seat as their father drives home
from grandmother’s wake.
In this, my most pathetic fallacy, 117
clasps our grief between
our palms, as if to diamond
our sad coal. This makes sense: Lomia
is the older sister here. Lomia:
for thousands, millions of years, lingering.
Oh, Lomia: care for me, care.