Dana Littlepage Smith
Do not look behind you. --Gen. 19:17 So simple a mistake. They say I turned to look; instead it was to listen. I did not know: only the dead can stand the music of the spheres made mortal. Caught in my hood, the hard chords of chaos: the childish scream, the mother's litany as she names the loss which instantly unnames her. And then the inconceivable: between the flint blast and the crack of iron, I heard the burning of the scorched moth wing, the lily as its petals crisp to white fire, but more than these, the footfall of a naked man who runs to nothing. And so I chose this brine, now crystals shift. The salt dissolves and I want to speak. Whore of all hopes, I now believe some stories survive in order to remake their endings.