Suns

A middle-aged couple
Sits at a window table in the tavern where I work
It is warm for February
And the window is open

The sun teases them
And they do a little dance of gestures and feints
To fend off its jabs

I work in the kitchen washing dishes, as well as
Other jobs like peeling potatoes and carrots
It’s a good job
A good job to start with
It’s something to have
Something to build on
I must be happy to have it—all this
I’m told

I’m told, also, not to stare through the portholes of the swinging doors
That lead from the dining area into the kitchen

But that’s what I’m doing, child of the Revolution that I am

Before I can change my mind, I go through the swinging doors
Grabbing a carafe of coffee off the corner of the bar
Before heading over to the couple at the window

From a few feet away I hear them speaking to each other softly
Even if they were speaking my native tongue there’s no way I could get what
They’re saying

The woman shields her eyes with a visor of a hand and
They both mutter Danke when I proffer the coffee

I feel the warmth of the sun on my face
The lumberjack rabbi has told me that I’m the whitest Jew
He’s ever seen, saying it like a tv anchor reporting the death of
Hundreds of people from starvation

The Jewish lumberjack came to the tavern the other night and, sitting
At the bar
Said: Why don’t you join me?

Before he could elaborate I told him I’m not allowed out of the kitchen
And ran back to the safety of my grater and my rags

When I open my eyes I’m hugging the carafe and
there is a waitress at my side,
Asking me if I’m okay
Asking me very slowly in the time-suffocated cadence
I’ve become used to in my new land
My Germany

I smile and roll my eyes
I’ve seen people do this with their eyes and now I’m doing it

I close my eyes and like magic
I’m back in the kitchen
The Jewish lumberjack is pleading with me to join him

I cut to the heart of a potato
And pretend it is the sun

Steve Hillard Swartz