Genesis 19:1-29
In the night air the city square
was falling fire, our eyes stitched
in burning, the last chance
to break out. I had to put
an end to it, my daughters offered
to strangers at the gate
yesterday, the girls
just squinted at me twisting
their braided hair. Up
the mountain, my wife crossed
her hands, tight fisted
against her stomach, wrapping
her sadness in the folds
of her blue dress when she turned back
to head down to the bones
of our baby boy in the backyard.
Longing for the life she left behind
came clawing back to her,
stronger than any punishing
commandment. She stored up
the loss of our child
year after year, tending
to the fevered past.
After his death I tucked myself away
in the shadows of the market
selling fresh figs, nursed
a deaf spot that could not
hear what was unsaid
by her hot kitchen stove.
Over the mountains
my daughters lagged behind
from the beginning, rocks
rough on their feet,
so I clutched their arms
on the steep cliffs. Holding on
would cost another life,
I yanked them forward, vanishing
over the hilltop
away from the smoke
drowning Gomorrah,
relieved how much bigger
the stars became in the black sky.
About Anthony Botti
