A Memory of Salt


From behind him, always


Trailing, fatigued, uphill:


Two daughters,


The salvaged trinkets


Of a life inflamed


In brimstone.


A good man, her husband,






On intimate terms with God.


But the minute she tried to


Capture their togetherness,


Turning her back on him for just an instance,


He made her into a memory of salt,


Gone with the first rain,


Melting seamlessly into the smoke


Of the furnace she used to call her home.


Her daughters, circling, uncorked the wine.