Horoscope

by 

Kathryn A. Kopple

This, my dear crab, is how it is:
You were born to a meager constellation,
a creature without a head, pincers instead of wings.
You are the dark sign of the zodiac, the least
interesting of Hercules’ labors.
You are constantly hiding, and therefore
mysterious, and the tides are always lapping
at the shell you keep armored against the
moon swept waves, the singing coral, pink
as a baby’s finger. And there is, in you,
a tendency to give it all away, your heart
in violin concertos, although crabs don’t sing
or dance, nor are they gifted with the crocodile’s
smile. The name you were given is synonymous
with grave ills and calamity, and you are not
immune to breakage. You drink the salt
of the oceans’ sweat, and never greet things
head on but claw a ragged path on your lateral
journey, envious of the gods, those elegant
spinners of love and fate, while you balance
on unsteady stilts at water’s edge.

Note:  "Horoscope" originally appeared in a slightly different form in Construction literary magazine.  Kathryn has published a number of poems over the years.  Poetry is her preferred medium, the space where she is happiest making things with words.  One day, she may collect her poems and call it a book.  One day, she may not.