In oil, pale circles roll and flip,
doughy moons inflating.
.
.
The fun part: poking a finger
inside, giving a wiggle and twist,
pushing a dollop of jam
knuckle-deep, then two, ’til
the cavity gleams raspberry.
.
Latkes are pedestrian.
These puff like a breath held.
.
There, and here,
a million women finger
these cupped curves,
probe the soft center,
push the sticky treat inside.
.
We glance at each other, faces hot.
We lick the sweet from our hands.
