Atlas of my being

I am unabashedly enthusiastic
about astrology.
Not the syndicated variety
as told by the woman
in the newspaper
named Raven
whose ethereal photo is meant
to make us feel
awe and comfort
at the same time,
which is
unlikely.
Mine is an Indian astrology,
a dense thicket of mathematical
breadcrumbs, retracing our steps
to before we arrived.
I can’t explain it
but the details of its map
are undeniable.
Specific, risky bets like:
you never met your father
and you will run
your own publishing company one day.
But my mind
can only hold this atlas
of my being
so long before it craves again
the thrill
of the unknown.
Meanwhile, the stars
blink patiently,
a billion answers
waiting
to be asked.