December Epithalamium

December Epithalamium Stuart Dybek One winter night walking from a party, or maybe on our way to a weddingwe 'd yet to be invited to, we stopped in the middle ofa rutted street to prop a bottle rocket in the wine bottle we'd just killed. Wind kept snuffing the matches so we huddled in a doorway and lit a cigarette. The flare of the match flickered on your wind-flushed face like a bride's blush. When I tapped the ash and touched the glowing tip to the wick, sparks like a just-lit sparkler crackled up the fuse, and we edged back watching the rocket hissing like a fragment of July in the middle of a cold, empty street, then whoosh, up through bare branches and wires, mirrored an instant on third story windows: an exploding bouquet over the roofs, red and green pinwheels and blue-violet petals parachuting down. Phosphorescent flakes fading to cinders. The scorched wine bottle smoldered with smoke. We left it smoldering in the middle of the street and walked away into a night whispering with winter. End on those whispers; only if this was rock and roll would I be allowed to say, I loved you like a bottle rocket in the snow. ...