her caravan moves swiftly
across the plain, away from the city,
away from home. all her past, possessions,
confidants, confessions that define her

are aflame. how could she not stop,
not glance—eyes overflowing,
salt on her tongue, tears
down her cheeks, shoulders.
the morning passes, and then
the day, tears still streaming
down her skin, dripping

into her pores. months, years,
a decade of shock, of realizing
why and weeping, flesh absorbing
a mother’s salt of sorrows—
corrosion from the epiphany
that unveils corruption
turns all mothers into monuments

of tears, reminding God of sorrow.
at least someone is mourning as only
a mother can—of course her husband
does not stop, does not wonder how
that pillar got there. only she can

say why her home was destroyed
in sulfur; only Lot’s wife knows
God’s secret; it whispers in her heart,
as she shouts back Far be that from you!
that is why she turned, why
she stands, still weeping, and
why the pillar grows steadily.
—Travis Poling, Richmond, Indiana, is a member of the Church of the Brethren and student at Bethany Theological Seminary and Earlham School of Religion with a focus in Ministry of Writing. A Pennsylvanian in exile, he likes to look back at his true home in the Cumberland Valley. As of yet, he is not a pillar of salt. This poem was submitted in response to “Lot’s Wife,” by Suzanne Ehst (DreamSeeker Magazine, Summer 2007).