Derived from Salt
by Pauline Rodwell
Tears alleviate even the driest of eyes,
like those of Lot, who did not know
of his wife’s weakness for looking back.
Had he borne or blindfolded her,
he could have prevented Sodom’s fire
from freezing her fleeing form behind him,
from leaving him to mourn her saltiness.
Shame on him for not knowing her better.
I am also salt.
I know this from the cat’s tongue
which scrapes my skin at night—
a convenient complement to nibbles
from her bowl beside the bed.
I know it when I perspire and lick my upper lip.
I know it again when I crave potato chips,
condensed soup, or a box of Cheez-its.
I am not yet a pillar—just coarse and non-Kosher—
like the partially-used emery boards cast about the house,
intent on smoothing rough edges.
What I need is water—not fluoridated,
chlorinated, or fruit-flavored—
just clean, unadulterated H2O.
It used to freely flow
from spring and summer storms
to nourish all our land.
Now we lie as dry as Lot’s wife,
our residue crystallizing in September’s sun.
We pray for pregnant clouds to appease
this unneeded season of desiccation.
Where does our water reign these days?
What alien country welcomes the vapors
of our corruption? Where does the bruised gray
sky green parched pastures of hay
and pour into broad basins unsullied
by Coke cans and dock debris?
Tell me, where do kindred souls convene
under the spill of baptismal streams
that restore and replenish them?
Surely a rush of rain will soon come
from some distant land less salty than ours.
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