by Donna Vorreyer

I Blame the Planets,  

though I don’t understand them, even poor relegated Pluto, who has vanished from the old mnemonic memory song so that now My Very Educated Mother Just Serves Us Noodles instead of Nine Pizzas. No matter. Astrologers say that those bulbous spheres are at fault for all my troubles. Who am I to argue when my car’s battery dies beneath a flock of shitting pigeons on a cold day and the windows fog from the steam of my breath while I wait for a tow truck? I curse those damn globules of gas and rock until I remember how lovely Earth looks from space, its oceans and cloud garments, its swirling. I can’t stay mad for long, at least at Earth. Or Mercury. I wish it would clap back, rain asteroids on our heads every time someone says retrograde to explain their misfortunes. It’s not Mercury’s fault, hung on the sky like an ornament, gazing out at its backyard of stars. I understand what it’s like—to take the blame, to have no voice.