kyndallrae

creating me [using words]

The Wife of Lot

I want to charge into the new,
to feel the breeze on my face
and not look back,
but my legs, like pillars of salt,
hold me to the evil.
I am planted to it,
like reverse roots;
Sodom drains my life-blood away,
and though my children are ahead of me
and I know I’ve saved them
by coming this far,
I feel tied up by the ankles,
unable to let go, I am stiffening.
I taste salt, like rising bile,
in the back of my throat.
Why would I return
to the men who would plunder my guests
and rape my daughters?
Why would I listen to their voices
calling me back, promising comfort,
saying, This is your home?

My eyes scan ahead, into the unknown
and I am terrified by what I do not know.
At least the pain and abuse is familiar territory
and I know how to be in it.
This new life will require a me
that I don’t know if I have anymore.
I look into my daughter’s faces and I see
that they have it still–
a fire I somehow passed on
though it lay dormant in me. They will survive,
I know, and of this, I am proud.
But the pride in me is small
and sour and hunched over
and the monsters of my past are calling
me back, back to my smallness
and smallness is easier than growing.
I am too old, too tired to grow.

Oh that I might die in my grief,
rather than return to my torment!
Might God have mercy on my weak soul?
Tears stream down my wrinkled face.
I lick them from my lips.
They taste of salt.
I cannot go on.
I will not go back.
I will not die.
God, forgive me!
I will become a monument,
one solitary life-sized tear
for every daughter who did not
or could not
or would not
leave.

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9 thoughts on “The Wife of Lot

  1. Linda Cross on said:

    Beautiful.

    Linda Cross 214.728.6457 Sent from my iPhone

  2. Robin on said:

    Wow.

  3. dellisphelps on said:

    I am a daughter
    Who could not
    Leave

    My mother’s bones-
    Pillars built with
    Tears

    I learned how
    To stay
    But not

    Living an exiled
    Life between lives

    Waiting to breathe
    To feed

    This hungriness
    Never ending

  4. brittany on said:

    I really like this one. Too often we forget how to feel the depths of the characters we consider unworthy of our modeling. We forget that they were humans like us.

  5. This one ached in the reading, ached. Not a mother, certainly, but too many times I’ve known this:

    “But the pride in me is small
    and sour and hunched over
    and the monsters of my past are calling
    me back, back to my smallness
    and smallness is easier than growing.
    I am too old, too tired to grow.”

    For me, not so much too old or tired to grow, but in the days of arrogant despair, the arrogant “knowledge” of a a despairing world was the only “comfort.” God calls us into the terrifying bliss of unknowing.

    I look forward to returning for more. Thanks, Kyndall.

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