print previewback KATE PARTRIDGE
Drunk Again
One December, Siduri threw a bottle of wine at the wall,
just to see. She used the one at the far end of the bar—bare
but for a few tacked maps amended with ink, etchings of paths
past and predicted. Tables and benches culled into a central mass, she
gripped the bottle like a throwing knife—by its neck; a quick toss
above her head projected its rotations. Siduri hurled so hard
the ridge of her tricep pulsed between swamp muck and mountain;
the bottle made landfall in the ranges cupping an inlet below
Quivira, neck fractured and surging like a geyser, coins dropping
from the ceiling into the flush of glass and wine. 