a sonnet for my father

‘I am in blood Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o’er.’

- Macbeth, William Shakespeare

Dark seeds and grape-skins rusted the morning,

bloodstained like a Merlot bottle. I washed

my Duncan-inked hands clean. I can’t punish

myself  

when Malbec-tumours throb, straining  

carpets' grasp on cream: a bloodline of kings.

In my crown of corks, I breathe

like a fish

until my scales bleed, and I’m feverish

in wine’s stormy waves and vines’ whines, pleading  

I’m not like Grandad.

But, it will have blood they say: (a) blood will.

That’s why I only sweat when I run for the Piccadilly Line.

No brandy muddies the frozen cobblestones.

Maybe I’m heretical to look for smoke signals -

but I trust these cheap vanilla lattes,

how they weld my palms,

and the coffee’s kisses keep me

warm.

Author’s note:

This poem explores intergenerational alcoholism. I found Shakespeare’s corrupt kings to be fitting personifications of the delusions, deceit, entitlement and madness that comes with being an alcoholic, while the ubiquitous theme of succession in a royal family compares interestingly to hereditary addiction.