Bread line

“Bread was no longer bread.
It was defiance. It was memory. It was prayer.

You stood in line with the rest, coat buttoned tight, your stomach folding in on itself.
There were no heroes in the bread line.
Only those too stubborn to die.

He saw her again.
Same eyes, same scarf.
He almost called her name.
But you learn not to speak to ghosts in Stalingrad.

The man with the tongs didn’t look up.
He dropped the crust into his hand like it weighed the world.

And Ivan held it like it was holy.”