Tasting Malbec

Luis is late; his hair is long
and a bit greasy, it flaps as he scales
the steps in long strides. I know him
immediately: he is late; he looks
worried. Señorita, so
sorry; No,

no hay
problema, still the silence
stumbles
between us;

but soon he tells me
about his daughter,
how she is learning English,
how she teaches him a word
or two; I ask about the thunderstorm
the night before, relámpago and, how
do you say it, when pieces of ice
fall from the sky?
Cayeron
piedras.

Luis drops me
at the vineyard, waits
as I tour the grounds, waits
as I walk through rows of Malbec
with Guillermo;

The grapes are shriveled,
Guillermo’s sadness is palpable. ¿Cayeron
piedras?

sí, he stumbles, hace
dos semanas; we drink fresh water
from an irrigation ditch, look back
across the fields: que tristeza; todo
muerto ya. His sigh rattles
in his throat;

Luis is waiting and he drives me
back to Mendoza; Lodi scratches its way
out of the radio and Luis wants to know
the words and what they mean;
I translate as he moves his head
to the beat; we sing with fervor: oh Lord,
stuck in Lodi again.