Done at last
with satisfying
the masses
with all that explaining

I shed the last
of my complaint stained skin
and emerged
still me and
thrilled with this me

though this current shine
on my familiar face
has made me  
scary to others

as I seem to them
somehow crueler
than before
somehow
not worthy
of a past sad self 
who was kind
when kindness
was deadly to me and tolerant
of poisons that nonetheless
also were killing
over time

Done with that 
I say to them
I understand your fear
of what you don’t understand
but you can love me dying
or hold me at arm’s length
while I learn how to live
in this new armor
with these new weapons

Those are your choices
I’ve made mine
I can’t go back

I don’t believe you,
sky; I don’t believe you,
stars, moon, and most certainly

I do not believe you,
Mercury,
you fleet hot liar.  

For some of us, “Mercury
retrograde” is code for
“this stuff happens everyday

but sometimes
people pay more attention to it
than others.”  For others,

it means “my whole life
is retrograde and 
I can never tell the difference.”

“Retrograde” screams a question:
who made the sky-pictures
of the West supreme?  Who chose

these myths to exalt
when every culture’s
that’s done the same

has drawn
such different
conclusions?

I’ve let myself become
so sour about all this 
I don’t even trust sunrise

to lift this weight
off my chest.
I’m so sick of all this

I want
to stop speaking
to people for days.

I’m so tired of all this
I might be ready
to believe.