Sunday, November 15, 2015

Lot's Wife In Prime Time


Wheeled out in prime time,
dusted off, make-up girls
powdering her up from crusted
toe to nose, Lot’s wife dug
from the desert, placed on a
sound stage under lights to
amuse the martini boys and girls
and sell a few six packs—here
the aftermath of a sand god
speaks to the masses in a tongue
they do not hear.
Could be Oprah or Maury,
Johnny or Dave—no matter,
any full set of teeth and lacquered
hairdo will suffice.
So Lot’s dear wife sits as a
caked mannequin, camel smile
burnt on for millennia, limestone
ears buzzed by an audience’s
tinnitus, listens to the micro-phoned
questions coming from a crowd
eager to consume a rock woman’s
answers.
Her thoughts ooze out like moss on
stone.
They would fish-hook them from her
frozen tongue.
Her gaze of ages from welded eyes
made cracked crystal by Sodom’s
burned turrets. This the lack of
obedience from the spirits’ warning
of not to gaze on the white incarnation,
solid fog made of mad oranges, blazing
reds, a tiny god’s history-pointing finger
that brought them all here, madly in love
with the heat that they imagined.
Her contemplations from a coral brain
remembering the shock wave cracked-foamed
over her form stilled in flight—cones of
electric light settling over, a stinger that
cannot be pulled.
These words she would hammer together
to make a house for them to live within:
do not believe that the force of history,
of rolled out consequences can be
peeled away, that forgiveness is flaked
stone revealing the core of kindness.
Do not believe that we can gaze
behind and find summer’s solace
choking the rot of autumn.
Do not believe that we are chosen
by heaven’s probability for
immortal glory after the arena’s
sands.
She would like to raise a stalactite
middle finger, but that would not be
lady-like.
All I did, like you, was look.
 
 
--Ralph Monday

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