I Am Salt
The men of Sodom gather like storm clouds
outside my house, rumbling and loud
and my husband and I inside, cowed.
The angels are pleading: go now,
the city will perish and burn.
I’m torn and I shout no, and I run
out the door, leaving my gold rings
and tapestry, the smells of garlic
and roasted lamb, the fruit of the fig
and honeyed wine.
I am slow as a sow
as moisture drips down my body.
I flee in the desert and fear
for my husband running ahead.
Sand sticks to my feet
through my sandals, and sweat
trickles down my brow.
I am running, running
per the angels’ decree,
running from my city close
to the sea.
My fears crystallize into thoughts,
and I long for my couches and carpets,
the sweet aromas of cinnamon and myrrh.
Salty tears sting my face,
and I yearn to look back. God said,
Look ahead to your destination,
Do not return to home and bed.
I can hear my anklets chinking,
already grieve my silver and purple
garments left inside my house below,
which is sinking to ash and rubble.
I say salt, and begin to feel
bereft. I taste salt
on my lips. A voice says halt
and the angels touch my shoulder,
and God wants my feet to move,
my head to remain forward, but
I am curious and stubborn,
I don’t believe the angel’s decree,
and I want to be free. So I turn
my head and my sweat dries to salt.
Mary Westcott
No comments:
Post a Comment