Both your grandparents survived the Holocaust after managing to escape
Auschwitz during a routine camp check by the SS leaders,
fleeing through the forests while holding hands. They waded through swamps
and once even held their breaths under water for three minutes
when the dogs came sniffing for them, the bubbles rising to the surface
like pearl earrings, the slow dance of their bodies like newly-caught fish
that struggle at the end of a hook.
After ten days in hiding, they came upon a small wooden house
inhabited by a kind old woman and her son Klaus, who allowed them
to stay in the cellar and eat the leftover potatoes and leeks.
When the rations grew too small, your grandfather gave his share
to your grandmother. Eventually they were able to secure tickets for a ship
passage to America, where they got married and stayed that way
for the next forty-three years.
You told me this in bed one night, both of us naked, the moon
casting its light like a lasso over your bare spine.
They are survivors, you said, breath hitching in your throat,
and it’s because of them that we have stayed together
for so long: they taught us the art of loving one another
even when we want to leave each other so badly
that the ache is stronger than hunger
after twenty-three days without food.