Taurus Turns Thirty (Libra Relents)

Seated alone on the couch, weary from the day's labor,

full of hard drink and a heavy meal, he was content this
birthday affair may pass without incident.

A bottle of twenty-five-year Scotch adorned his lap.  

He made certain she saw him swallow the sleeping pill she

insisted he withhold until after the party.

He told her he did not want a party, yet she persisted

on account of the supermoon conjoining with Venus

and Mercury being no longer in retrograde.

Nonsense, he muttered, as a tranquil haze washed over him.

The band was warming up out back and guests were arriving

when the initial assault was launched.

He advance was clumsy and ill-planned.
He stirred upon approach, stiff-arming her to the ground.  

A subsequent attempt succeeded with a flanking maneuver

that sent his bottle to the hardwood floor.
"Don't break that bottle!" she shouted.  "That's my favorite bottle!"  

He swept her shins and they tumbled about the room,

laughing and cursing each other.  They tumbled into some guests, 

spilling their drinks.  The guests did not approve.
She retreated to the kitchen.  He meandered into the yard 

with a fresh glass of whiskey.  "Thanks for coming," he said to

the new arrivals, then stretched onto the cool lawn grass

and gazed upward to the heavens.

He spied the constellation Taurus in the north sky,

invited a blessing of good health and a sign of his longevity.

He awaited the sign as the whiskey-sleeping-pill cocktail took hold.

His eyes grew heavy as coins when a shout was heard 

from the house:  "Don't break that glass!  That's my favorite glass!".

Taurus leapt to his feet and smashed the glass against the sidewalk.

An anxious silence befell the partygoers as Libra emerged

onto the patio.  She declared she would bust his head,

then pounced like a wildcat, kicking and clawing at him.

She bit his ear.  He yanked her hair.  She pushed him into the dirt,

him pulling her down and working her into a chokehold

until she relented.

Taurus relaxed his grip, and they sank into the earth gasping for air.

A passerby stopped to inquire if there was a fight.

"It's hard to tell sometimes," he heard someone say.

She heard it too, then climbed atop him, cheerful and triumphant,

glowing like a banshee in the April moonlight.

"You obstinate son of a bitch," she exhaled, then collapsed in a heap.

And he held her awhile like that, until the cicadas quieted their

evening symphony, the earth rotated eastward to Gemini,

and their breathing fell once again into synchronous rhythm.

**First published in WildSound Writing Festival anthology

Wedlock

He does not complain when
she drinks too much at parties.
A solemn reserve masks his displeasure;
he is far too mannered
to provoke a scene.

While other couples quibble
over inane social decorum,
he maintains a decisive restraint,
even as she betrays
their most intimate affairs.

He does not censor her language
with unfamiliar guests,
although she spooks the delicate
among them with brash comedy
and wild gesticulation.

She croons to inviting men
when she finds him inattentive
and suffers aloud when he scorns
her amorous gesture.  Long after
others have bid goodnight,

he coaxes her to the car
and drives them home, stopping
along the rain-soaked freeway
so she may vomit her
memory of the evening.

He observes her beneath
a veil of tearful prayer and visions
of a cherished life reflected
in the pavement.  In the bedroom,
he rebuffs her advance,

insists she remove her soiled attire.
OK, Boss, she mutters.  You're the boss.
He draws a warm, saline bath,
presents fresh underclothes
and waits for her to change.


**First published in Duck Lake Journal