This is the woman you don't know,
-- unnamed, undone --
though you've heard how she turned
for a last look and that
was that. No time
for those twelve chapters
to creative awakening, with accompanying
exercises. Lot kept his head
down. Why is it that a woman can't
give up what's already gone? We all know
what curiosity plus cat equals. This time
God snapped his fingers,
reduced the city to ash,
along with two of Lot's daughters, sons-in-law,
twins in the polks-dot stroller,
rattles on the rug,
a whatnot full of souvenirs:
the straw donkey from Spain, clay vase
from Mexico with the crack in it. Dishes
still in the sink, phone off the hook
and the voice of the angel
echoing loud in everyone's ear.
Told you so.
After that
who was left
to pick up the pieces? Soon Lot was sleeping
with his younger daughters,
but it was all so dreamlike. Across the plain,
the city kept burning. People made little cries
of distress, flames leapt
from one building
to another. Smoke filled the air.
Copyright © 2003 Anne Simpson
