Lot’s wife, among the many,
names lost, arrested in their flight,
most commonplace of histories,
becomes by whim, intent or judgment,
most anodyne of condiments,
an apt, if unintended, choice,
obliquely bound to womanhood.

Salt. Seasoner of countless meals,
domestic presence, staple,
residue of tears,
buoyancy, the rocking buoy
saying to drifting children
here, where I am
you may drop your nets,
here is where they were woven.

Telling, too, is its impermanence.
Diminished, dissolved,
reclaimed by rains and soil,
no epitaph, yet embodying
attribute and accolade
bestowed on seasoned men.