Slicing the Bread

Her mother’s hunger. One huge pot of hot water

with some chopped weeds –komesa, lebioda–

she taught her to recognize their leaves,

just in case – plus a spoonful of flour

for flavor. Lunch for twenty people

crammed into a two-bedroom house.

The spring was the worst–flowers, birdsong,

and nothing to eat.  You had to wait

for the rye and potatoes to grow. The pantry

was empty. She was hungry. Always hungry.

She ate raw wheat sometimes. Too green,

The kernels she chewed –still milky –made her sick.

Thirty years after the war,

her mother stashed paper bags with sliced, dried bread

on top shelves in her Warsaw kitchen.

Twenty, thirty bags… enough food for a month.

Don’t ever throw any bread away, her mother said.

Remember, war is hunger.

Every week, her mother ate dziad soup –

fit for a beggar, made with crumbled wheat buns,

stale sourdough loaves, pieces of dark rye

soaked in hot tea with honey.

She liked it. She wanted to remember

its taste.

Page 2

© Copyright, 2014, Maja Trochimczyk.
All rights reserved.