by Mara Inglezakis
With the Kevlar glove of the angel on her wrist she spoke: I know
we have to go. I know the smell of fear
and of charred flesh. I know we have to go. But you
forget: this place is still my home.
Did I clean out the espresso pot? Is the AC off?
Is the back gate locked?
They swarmed the streets with their
house-shoes on. A woman turns:
you must look back. You must mourn Sodom and
Gomorrah or you will turn into a pillar of stone.
At the crimp in the last switchback up the mountain above Zoar
her husband spoke: keep going.
To hell with you, I am a pillar
of salt. You know I can’t keep going if you don’t carry me.