My grandfather was born in the land of Arak
where lions with combed manes
lay posed as lambs.
“This is the King of the Beasts,” his finger trembled along the bottle’s label.
And in his thin mustache I saw the wind blow across the latitudes
and longitudes of a jungle I once dreamt of.

Luckily I got lost there.
Otherwise Jack Daniels would have been my father.
A mouthful of gin would have rocked the cradle of tonic in my throat.

And only in empty bottles that I wanted to throw into the sea
did I hide secret messages in memory of him,
drunk from love.