But Lot’s wife behind him looked back, and she became a pillar of salt.
It’s not bad to be compelled, held
in place like quivering ions
at the precise vertices of
a regular octahedron.
Eat this. Wear that. Pray to this God,
not the burning sun. In a face-
centered cubic lattice you know
where you are when the towers fall.
Dance so hard salt whirs
off your body in pulses.
The men of the cities found an unmarried girl
had given succor to the wandering
stranger. She gave him bread and water.
So they lathered her with honey. Then they sent
bees, like salt poured from a shaker.
This is photo
of the sea after the sea has left
and here are
the rivulets in the sand the shadow
held the moon here is the depth
of its passing and here glinting.
Deborah Bacharach is the author of After I Stop Lying (Cherry Grove Collections, 2015). Her poems have been published in journals nationally and internationally, including The Antigonish Review, Arts & Letters, Calyx, Cimarron Review, New Letters and Poet Lore. She is a college writing instructor, editor, and tutor and lives in Seattle with her family.