full of hard drink and a heavy meal,
he hoped this birthday affair might pass without incident.
A bottle of twenty-five-year Scotch adorned his lap.
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 winding down from retrograde.
"Nonsense", he muttered, as a tranquil haze washed over him.
The band tuned up out back and guests drifted in
when the initial assault began.
He 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!"
"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,
laughing and cursing each other, colliding with guests,
spilling their drinks. The guests did not approve.
She retreated to the kitchen. He stumbled into the yard
She retreated to the kitchen. He stumbled into the yard
with a fresh glass of whiskey. "Thanks for coming," he told
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, 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 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," 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
