Somewhere in an old book,
edges frayed and stale like bread
A woman shuffles bare feet
raked through rocks ground into pebbles
over a thousand years.
"Don't look back" angels command
to the cities of the plains
nuzzled by the Jordan river
(which could have been the Garden of Eden
if not for the venality
of sex and taxes).
"Don't look back" her husband commands
but her instinct...
a little girl and her curiosity-
a woman and her intuition-
a mother and her compassion-
...
"Don't look back."
But the woman who confronts angles
and their decrees
who, known only for her refusal
and disobedience,
is not even extended the courtesy of a name
to admonish.
After all,
is it not the gift of a woman
-a measure of her spirit-
to look back?
To reach out for the child, abandoned,
like spilt table salt?
