​

but to me it means being an initiate 

of the Dionysian rite called sparagmos, 

an experience of being ripped apart,
limb from limb, and devoured 

by the blossom-bringing, sap-busting 

force of life.

 

When I meet another Scorpio,

I bow to their commitment 

to the depths of their pain.

 

When I meet another Scorpio 

and poet named Flor,

she says the reason

she writes is to buffer 

the mudslide of death 

threatening to topple
the garden she grows

on a knife’s edge.

 

Death is an alarm clock 

rattling the walls of her lungs
like an obnoxious roommate.

 

Death is a rubber band pulling her away
from a lingering kiss.

 

Death is a sharp tug on the shoulder
when she imagines teaching her future
kids about empathy: 

 

Take this conch shell and hold it up to your ear.

Quiet your mind and imagine the roaring tide you hear 

is another person's heart 

struggling against the gravity of their fears 

which causes every one of us to act 

very weird.
 

When she tells me 

she has a genetic mutation 

called cystic fibrosis, 

which means she will die
in her physical prime, 

which means she is lucky to live past thirty-five,

 

I start breaking down
in a boho-chic, boutique shop

in the middle of a crowded surf town 

called Sayulita,

 

and drop my colorful tote bag,

my wire-wrapped, tiger’s eye necklace,

my hand beaded, dream-catcher earrings,

and rush to the next shop that will sell me 

tarjetas postales, post cards,
 

and spend the rest of the night on the beach
under the light of the full moon 

howling my heart into gratitude
for anyone I can possibly love 

 

and remember why I choose to be 

for this very short and faithful ride 

a Scorpio—
one who feels deeply.