Do you know Lot’s wife?
The one who turned into salt?
The one who missed her friends who died,
The one who thought maybe she left something behind?
I can’t look away from a candle,
How could she not look at a city consumed?
Feeling the heat of judgment
Begging for her to turn around.
What is nostalgia mixed with terror?
Horror perhaps,
When she looks back at her city
That she was forced to leave.
Was she holding on to Lot’s hand?
Was he pulling her along not daring
To turn around to ensure she was watching her steps?
Was she holding his hand tightly?
Did Lot almost dislocate his shoulder
When he felt the jerk of a pillar?
Did he have a scar on the top of his hand
After pulling free from the consequence of
Curiosity?
Did he love that scar?
Did he look at that and miss her?
Did he hate it and even her a little,
For not keeping her head down?
Was he about to turn around
But she beat him too it and proved
God meant what he said?
Was she a sacrifice to give Abraham his nephew?
No one was righteous,
Not even her.
Everyone was consumed.
And maybe the scar on Lot’s hand
Reminded him that he should’ve been too.
Look Down, Be Here 