Brown as a boat, bottom up on a mud bank,

starred with seeds, the rye bread of my childhood

transports me to the past. When I take a bite,

I’m walking down Castor Avenue, past the post office

and deli, where spitted chickens spin in the window.

In the bakery, I ask the clerk to slice it thin as paper,

just barely warm. Glazed Danish, shimmering

with yolk-orange apricot, rivals the sun

for brightness, but I prefer the taste of rye bread

spread with shmaltz, a melting golden pool,

with gribenes, crispy onion cracklings,

caraway seeds snapping under my teeth.

In winter, at the table with my steaming bowl

of soup, I’d dip a slice of rye bread in the broth.

In summer, I’d trade pennies, counted out

along the counter, for a taste of cold cuts

on fresh rye, fat lime-green pickle out of the barrel.

After dinner, I would ride my bike for hours

past the library, around the block till fireflies

lit up the lawns with green-gold fire.