it's all about mie

Brot
Chleb
Simple words hewn
To frame
The most basic
Of human needs
A single syllable
Which can be slipped
Inside a ragged pocket
And chewed when
The kapo is not looking
On the supermarket
Shelves the Polish
Bread is from a
Different era;
Sourdough rye
It is stolid peasant
Fare whose dark
Caraway tang
Speaks of pogroms
Camps and sinister
Ovens
The French call it
Pain noir
Black pain
Memento mori
Contradicting
The frivolity of the
White fleshed
Baguette peeping
Priapically from
Mademoiselle's
Basket en route
To a pique nique
With her lover
In Polish and
German there
Is no word
For picnic