psalm 151

i would like to write a psalm made of salt dedicated to whomever Lot’s Wife really was.

for people cannot be made of perfection

and people cannot be made to never hold grudges. what if

her back was warmed by the fire that stole her neighbors’ breaths

right out of their lungs and tried

to steal hers but couldn’t so it waited in her shadow

hot breath on her neck, whispering bay leaves in her ear,

sweet nothings that smelt of burnt flesh and heartbreak?

what if she didn’t know that her husband who always walked in front

of her was told to not look back

by the angels, was told to not give a second thought to the city his city 

choking just a mile behind him in the gaze of Hashem (except

it wasn’t Hashem not to them anyways), and wanted

to wave goodbye to the city her city that raised her and sent her away? –

except as she turned,

hair swinging unsteadily through the rising smoke, eyes

struggling to register love in the grasp of flames,

the angels decided she wasn’t good enough anymore.

Lot’s Wife, who does not have a name,

who only wanted a proper farewell,

is there still, palm upturned towards the heaven she knew

she was never going to reach, lips parted with words unspoken

and from her throat a prayer claws its way out for no one prays

in words quieter than a scream, a psalm for goodbyes and tears

and oceans that taste of forever to the demons,

for salt caking our tongues and encasing our bodies

preventing us from ever finding out who Lot’s Wife really was.