We’re sharing a bottle of vin de table

and your mother’s letter

wonders who you take after -

all this gallivanting palaver.

 

You took after me across La Manche

swapping one tongue for another,

sliding down France’s helter-skelter

wherever our thumbs meandered.

 

You slept through a film in Angoulême.

I stabbed the stomach of un étranger

whose fingers disturbed your slumber.

 

As his flesh fell apart and the juice

spilled out, we joined hands

and escaped by la fenêtre.

 

All the way to Narbonne we fled;

the crickets chirped like indicateurs

so I shot them with drink and thunder.

 

Your skin browned into a shadow

while mine burnt and peeled

to reveal what  lay under.

 

When les vendanges began

you trailed behind as I raced

to pluck the grapes from the vine

before they burst asunder.

 

Over my shoulder I hear you confer

with les vendangeurs and strain

to catch the foreign words.

In the evening the crickets grow louder.

 

Tell your mother it’s 3am;

you slept through a film in Angoulême

and you’ve no idea who you’ve taken after.