Pinkie Masters

Fresh from the Garden of Good and Evil,
we arrive before dusk in search of The Lady
Chablis and the best dive in the South—

you, Lisa, and me in Savannah
on Christmas Eve, greeted by green-
and-red lights strung around

the Confederate flag, the bar full of men
thick with beards and sweat and the right
amount of nutmeg in my mother’s recipe,

a patron says as he passes around
a tin of almond cookies—buttery
and cold. Six drinks in, we ask

the woman whose man just left her
if we can buy her another round.
She accepts, laments how she’s been

there since noon, how her man begged
her to come home. How she refused.
I have the hiccups like a motherfucker.

A good scare can cure anything, she says.
We nod, and I thank her but insist
on holding my breath all night.

A man across the bar asks where
I’m from. Charleston! I yell back,
meaning that’s where I live,

but it’s never been home. They think
pretty highly of themselves up there,
don’t they? he asks. Fuck yeah, they do,

I reply, thankful he didn’t include me
with them. He asks me to step outside.
I forget my jacket. We stumble

into the cold, turn the corner, and greet
the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist.
The man points up at the parapets

and asks, Ain’t that something?
And I say, Yeah, like I’m in a Carver 
story, before coming back

inside, rubbing the warmth
back into my arms,
still trying to hold my breath.

A woman pulls me aside, instructs me
to make sure you get your wife and mother-
in-law home safe. I nod and do my best

impression of sobriety, taking the lead
as we walk Savannah’s dark
and lovely arms. Years from now

Lisa and I will sprinkle your ashes
in the same bar, under the same
seats, into the same flowerpots

that line the smeared window
with its broken neon sign: Miller
High Life. But tonight’s not over:

We order drinks to go from
the rooftop lounge, the fake
Irish pub, the basement bar

serving Grand Marnier in Dixie cups
with more ice than a Missouri
winter. I am loved. We are going

home. You clutch your heart
and lean against the wall, slide
down to cobblestone, struggling

to breathe. We reach out, ready
to dial 911, when you stop and ask,
Do you still have the hiccups?

before you stand and slip a Dixie cup
out of your pocket and take a sip.
We laugh, and I ask how you can

pull a drink from your coat without
spilling a drop. I still know a few
things, you say. You said.