The faded swastika on the side of the barn
is showing through the latest layer of paint
and must be painted over by the owner again.
Our generation is generous it seems.
Over dinner we discuss how the farmer’s daughter
was a victim of her beautiful genes,
no choice but to take the Nazi officer’s seed.
‘What would you do?’ The sort of moral dilemma
sorted over a second bottle, until resentment breeds.
Your great uncle a prêté serment –
swore an oath to Pétain – and was préfet
of Calvados. I translate this to an easy life in Caen.
I ask if, after the war, he was detained.
You say, surveillance gardée, (is there a difference?)
but his possessions and farm were returned.
I boast of my Danish uncle who fought in the resistance.
You stress yours was an uncle only by marriage.
Where is this going? Nowhere, but we are persistent,
stripping off layers of skin to expose raw nerves,
find iron in blood, the cross in the ribcage –
what of us that shows through, what it proves