What if instead of turning, or
tripping, then flaking into a coarse
pillar, Lot’s wife pressed on,
the backs of her daughters’ heads
shining like lodestars, their amber
or flax hair, come loose from haste,
lit by a thousand tiny stars
making their way towards sin. What if
her virgin children, motherless in a brutal land
was more frightening, just slightly more
frightening than never seeing him,
the one who helped carry her
baskets when Lot couldn’t be found.
What if verses later, after whispering,
“Don’t worry, it’s not incest, just
fornication,” into hungover ears,
she ran back to the ridge above Sodom,
stood paralyzed, only her eyes searching,
searching.

-Teneice Durrant Delgado