opposite my grandpa and he has
a bottle of whisky and some benzos on the table
in front of him. He’s eighty-five and the furrows
in his face say he’s never had therapy.
He tells me that the pills are just painkillers,
that the whisky is apple juice, but I can see
those red lines crowd his eyes, trace my lineage
back through them to my mum with me in her arms
as she paces round the dining room table,
and on through my grandpa to his own mother,
watching Hitler as he raves in a Berlin park.
I can feel myself sinking through the pit
of his pupils, and no matter how hard I try
to claw at the sides this legacy is my destiny:
a shame no shower could wash away.
