Curse of the Berserker's Wife

So immaculately groomed,
so perfectly dressed,
so erect and motionless
amidst the repartee and jest,
that at first glance across
the crowded room one might
take him for a foreign guest.

Between the canapes and soup
is when it usually begins,
imperceptible at first
like some viscous pudding
coming to a boil from within,
he begins to seethe and roil,
his countenance turns grim.

She can always spot disaster
long before it comes -- nothing
she can do, nowhere she can run.
She can only watch the slaughter
as his broadsword wit unsheathes,
she can only wince and shudder
as he chops and cuts and cleaves.

He stumbles off to bed, disheveled
and distraught, leaving her alone
to face the carnage he has wrought:
the tears, the awkward silences,
once friends...now nevermore,
rendered egos, severed psyches,
rushing pell-mell for the door.

How many more evenings
must she suffer, how many
more deftly dull parties stage
and the sparkling hostess play,
before she has the evidence,
gathered fit by bloody fit,
to put the lunatic away?

Appeared in Talebones #6