Lot's Wife

Rene Stevenson

As God’s angel called Lot home
his wife heard the first note
of the goddess song
in her bones

felt the high priestess
tug the rope of coloured silk memory
tying her heart to
temples of the moon.

To the tread of camel footsteps
she began to weep
for her raven- haired sisters
whispering ancient stories of bliss and birth,
for feasts of laughing flutes,
snake charmers and smokey joy.

She wept for moonlit groves of pregnant palms
for ripe flesh sweating nights alive,
for suckling babies,
for red spice and moist rice
piled in clay pots

As Lot stared ahead
she wept for womens’ sexual gossip
ground into flat bread,
for ecstatic sacrifices to the morning star
and desert prayers.

Tears splashed her arms and legs,
soaked her clothes
and the sun-god, smiling tenderly,
bent from the sky
to lick her slowly.

Through days of holy longing, he moulded her
into a statue of stone

She stands majestic, alone
and time blows
salt crystals from her curves
into our bones
where pain immobilises
our souls

Until we wake some dark night
surprised by grief and the smell of the sea
and cry, at last,
for Lot’s wife
and our abandoned dreams.

Previously published in Fidelities XI

LitNet: 08 August 2006

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