Lot’s wives
God has burnt
us down so
many times while
we run screaming
from the flames.
But we are
no phoenix rising
again. We always
turn to watch
the walls fall,
the golden licking
up of sky.
It is done.
We freeze: columns
of salt. Rain
comes, melts away
regret for what
cannot be gotten
back. Earth turns
saline swallowing us.
Years pass before
we grow again:
tall trees some
man will harvest
to build his
city. If only
we would stop
turning to see
turning to grieve
turning to leaves,
perhaps we could
find out who
we could be,
stop following him,
walk quietly away,
while Lot keeps
running, too weary
to stop to
chasten, to save.
