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 hoped this birthday affair 

might pass without incident.

A bottle of twenty-five-year Scotch 

rested on 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.

She persisted

on account of the supermoon 

conjoining with Venus

and Mercury winding down 

from retrograde.

"Nonsense", he muttered, 

as a tranquil haze washed over him.

The band tuned up out back 

and guests were drifting in

when the initial assault was launched.

Her advance was clumsy and ill-planned.

He stirred upon approach, 

stiff-arming her to the ground.

  

A second attempt succeeded 

with a flanking maneuver

that sent his bottle skittering 

across the hardwood.

"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, 

colliding with guests, 

spilling their drinks.  

She retreated to the kitchen.  

He stumbled into the yard 

with a fresh glass of whiskey.  

"Thanks for coming," he told new arrivals, 

then stretched onto the cool grass

and gazed upward to the heavens.

He spied the constellation Taurus 

in the north sky,

invited a blessing of good health, 

a sign of his longevity.

He waited 

as the whiskey-sleeping-pill cocktail 

took hold.

His eyes grew heavy as coins 

when a shout rose from the house:  

"Don't break that glass!  

That's my favorite glass!".

Taurus leapt to his feet 

and smashed the glass on 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.

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 they sank into the earth, 

gasping for air.

A passerby stopped to inquire 

if there was a fight.

"It's hard to tell sometimes," 

someone answered.

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, collapsing in a heap.

And he held her 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