For my uncle, a drink must be extravagant 
pleasurable but not sentimental. There must be 
a love for the gurgle of the bottle, a sound 
for the click of neck & lip which sleeps for years 
in the canals of his ears. There must be fire 
down his throat. The tumbler must have nerve 
despite the pain in his backbone, despite the leg 
that goes off. As a child when he first learned 
to form questions did the answers light up 
the bottle pocketed in his father’s jacket.
On winter holidays when he got so lit my father 
drove him home & most likely put him to bed. 
I always knew he would come like this, outdrinking 
everyone & no one lifting a finger to stop what then 
meant nothing now means every lick of it. I love 
to see the lines of his eyes curve when he savors 
juniper berries like a good monk in a monastery. I love 
to hear him say, you gat dat right, when he speaks 
of my dead father. It is possible to make a phrase sound 
so beautiful there’s a rhythm to it. From my uncle 
I’ve learned so much I’ve got nothing on his father.
I could paint the notes for you, the madder 
& amber color of a bottle in a Rembrandt painting. 
Such a non sequitur, I must exaggerate to be exact.
All my lousy life I have fallen for it, this dark brew 
personified. I can tell the answers by the way 
the gin rises in a burst out of his throat. I mean it 
like a clenching mourner, I’ve carried a flask.