grandpa's whiskey

poured only when the bottle of wine is dry

on special occasions when the heart

is clouded with what ifs and whys;

its certain tribal elixir a comfort in storms

and time that doesn’t fit into every day.

I pull a dram to call the tribe to circle ‘round,

protect me from playboys of the west  and

certain agents that dishonor the tri-colour:

turn coats that can’t know a day of toil and turf

whose hands  haven’t held the hand of the earth.

in a barrel-filled room full of the amber stream,

I find my grandfather who kept bottles in boxes

in case the big lake pulled in mountains of snow

jailing him in solitary confinement: it’s noon in New York

and he tastes manhattan: whiskey and sweet vermouth.

I am his daughter, one who has only sons,

he pulls me to him and says that I will hold up the name

in spite of the patriarchy, in spite of the brawn and

arrogance that are his second sons;

he knows that I am the one to bring him whiskey.