_71. Old Country

The first time I got drunk
was at this table
when I was 15 and my parents
had gone to bed, I stayed up
with my aunt and uncle drinking
white wine in little fistfuls
waiting for my cousin’s train
from Brussels. The next day
my father and I drove to the Moselle
where the old family graves are, the old
bodies who spoke a language
I don’t, my father interpretting.
Their story is his story and also mine,
I only don’t know the words,
just the places and
outlines on a map.
A generational cartographer.
And now here’s my uncle
pulling the bottle of quech
out at the dinner table,
the one my father’s grandfather made,
all writing gone from the label
and mellowed a little fifty years on
but still bitter,
still strong language in the mouth.