Lot's Wife
You can die of thirst as easily
in the ocean as the desert. The sting
of salt on broken skin, the same.
Once, you refused my tears--
you asked me what use water was
to a drowning man. I had nothing
else to offer, not even the certainty of tides.
You wandered west, found night-blooming
cactus and tequila. I stayed with the sea,
worried a handful of sand in my pocket.
I sift the grains you sent from Arizona
with the beach on Block Island. The wind
rises, coats my face and hair with brine,
stiffens wet clothes as I stand,
always looking back.