by Cynthia Pratt
To Lot’s Wife
Perhaps it was the vase handed down from my mother
or maybe the albums of my children’s photos:
my son’s toothless grin, my daughter’s Brownie vest
with pins of achievement, children growing year by year.
Even me, in my First Communion dress white as grace.
Would I look back one more time, thinking of my ancestors,
their graves solid next to each other? To each, I would bring
every year flowers, daisies, forget-me-nots, maybe a California
poppy mixed in. The last sight I’ll see of their connection.