–Adam Zagajewski, Another Beauty
Bread House Salt God
The tsunami smell of yeast inundated our house
the mornings our mother baked bread,
up through floorboards it came, up the stairwell
it spread stirring our dreamselves alive,
fresh loaves, bells for the nose, their toll
expelled sleep from somnolent heads,
Broken bread, “you are the salt of the earth,” he said
as a breeze blew over a wine jug’s spout which made
a lowing sound as if a ghost were playing a bass flute,
as if a shade could play such an instrument.
We heard with superstitious ears
and over our shoulders cast that condiment,
a column of salt. Lot’s wife turned around
with sorrow. Her heart bled, it thumped
to her anger at what God did, ached
over the ashes of each house.
over the ashes of Ash Wednesday,
over the ashes of the day before,
over smoking coals glowing with
godjustice.
She stood unnamed becoming a pillar of
sodium chloride looking back,
watching tongues of fire,
watching pillars of smoke,
watching her world burn,
condemned for not keeping her grief hid.
Jim Culleny, November 2008
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