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,
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
