Chleb

Upstairs at the Polish Club / Among plastic palms and gossip, / While Wujiu Jerzy / Sells kielbasy and chleb—[…]

[…] dough for the chleb beaten down with imprints of her fists and knuckles […] the moist ferment staring at her in anticipation of being molded baked buttered into something fantastic succulent artistic slices of chleb […]

Mountains of chleb teetered on plates.

In the safety of her bedroom, with a litre of water and a slice of chleb inside her, things felt better again.

The diner where the soup was almost free (three zloty, with chleb and margarine) has closed, dumping its coarse clientele into history.