“Let us not burthen our remembrance with
A heaviness that’s gone.”
—The Tempest, William Shakespeare

That it was an island is little matter.
At the seventh of seven villages, at the top
of the mountain, we stopped to see the caretaker

who spoke some English and lived a short walk
from the house where we’d spend the night.
We found him on his stoop, whittling a stick.

When he saw us, he disappeared inside
and returned smiling, with iced cans of beer.
We sat, and he told us the news, bit by bit,

between sips. At some point he called
through the door and his daughter brought
shallow bowls and spoons. Of the color

of her hair or eyes, the shape of her hands,
I remember nothing. I remember her soup.
White beans. Pinch of sea salt. Nothing more.