Catherine McLain
Running Like Lot's Wife
It seeped through fissures in the thick air,
dripped on my ear,
rolled like a peeled grape—
The Voice—
mellifluous as Patti Page singing
Allegheny Moon to steamy dryads—
"Don't look back."
Star drops bombarded my breast,
filled my body like a sacred vessel,
forced the fuse.
Fireworks fallout struck the moss,
the skin, the tongue.
Blonde brush coast grass
called me to the salty edge
to look.
Bio
I am an aging English Major (Millsaps College, 1973) Many years ago I wrote a few poems. A few of those few were included in small publications. Now, in late life, poetry is calling again.