Drink

DRINK / Richard Katrovas The dancers have gone home. Outside. Lowtide. 5 a.m. What moves moves slowly, even lovers under blankets in the cool sand. I wrap my fingers in a towel, swirl another glass. Through the picture window I watch ringed fires falling into ash. What burned all night will burn again: Sweet Billy Hammer, white boy with the bushy 'fro, leader of the hottest band in town, squats in the blue footlights flying through licks on his Martin with the amp off. I empty the rubber spillcatcher into a brandy snifter and top it off with house sour mash. Taking it to him, I can't say, Billy, these are the night's dregs, drink and your hands will grow dark, a moon will rise in your palm and you will pinch it and strum a song no one can dance to . . . His eyes shut tight, he is healing, privately, and would not hear me. He has never burdened me with his story, nor I him with mine. For this we are grateful to each other and are silent like the truly grateful. The stunned shadows of morning's fringe penetrate the powdered light he inhabits. 14 · The Missouri Review I stand before him with my offering waiting for a sign, a break. He plays on, and on the third finger of his left hand a gold band triggers slips of light, sixteenth notes dissolving into others: Do you play this song for her, Billy? Is your heart burning, or is it simply something cool that glows? It doesn't matter. The dogs of morning are catching fire on the beachfront porches. Joggers grunt by in their grey sweatsuits and miles away a siren blasts and peters out. This smear of paradise is plugging into sunshine. Drink, tip this glass I bring you and drain it without breathing. Richard Katrovas The Missouri Review · 15 ...