Soup

At the restaurant with white linens 
and candles in glass cups, I remember,
my grandfather sent back the soup.

A bit chilly, he said. So he sent it back. 
Beside his daughter and grandkids, 
he sent it back. His parents and sisters

murdered. He sent back the soup. 
He had survived three death camps,
subsisted on crusts and peelings and fear.

Then one evening, in his eightieth year,
my grandfather slurped, then sent back 
the soup. I was eleven years old

and did not understand. How could 
anyone care about the temperature 
of soup, having endured no soup, no

hope, for so long? There was warm bread 
at the center of the table. Some soft, 
forgettable music floated through the air.


To send it back. To trust what a menu 
and a waiter had promised. To believe
still in promises. In anything at all.