Post Yom Hashoah

You press your lips to the bread,
my thighs to your thighs:

I ponder the era when your hands wove in and out of my body,
our skin softer than this bread, because God created us without crusts,
when He threw some earth into a kiln and named it Adam;
you mold my body around yours like clay -
my thighs are two handles sticking out of your back,
my body a jug meant to hold you.

But now I lie, empty,
and the breadrcrumbs cannot sate the hunger of my thighs.
 The crusts feel hard between my lips;
I suck gently, and try not to cry.