Poem | Salt

This story is included in these collections
(Alex Wolfe/Unsplash)

Lot’s wife, among the many,
names lost, arrested in their flight,
most commonplace of histories,
becomes by whim, intent or judgment,
most anodyne of condiments,
an apt, if unintended, choice,
obliquely bound to womanhood.

Salt. Seasoner of countless meals,
domestic presence, staple,
residue of tears,
buoyancy, the rocking buoy
saying to drifting children
here, where I am
you may drop your nets,
here is where they were woven.

Telling, too, is its impermanence.
Diminished, dissolved,
reclaimed by rains and soil,
no epitaph, yet embodying
attribute and accolade
bestowed on seasoned men.

Published in the January 2022 issue: 
Tags

Marjorie Mir is a retired librarian whose work has appeared in Atlanta Review, Eclectica, and Kosmos, as well as a number of anthologies. She lives in Bronxville, New York.

This story is included in these collections:

Please email comments to [email protected] and join the conversation on our Facebook page.

Must Reads

Culture
Collections
Collections