Born broken to a
mother who pushed her
into a world wordless
with grief, sure her
father that she feared,
had mixed a dose
of poison in a
drink that he bade
her give the mother
that she adored who
drank it to the
last and died in
anguish on the night
that good night became
goodbye for ever more,
she was splinted with
popsicle sticks and grew,
walked, ran, but never
up or away from
the sorrow, but always
toward the salt-caked
embrace of this woman
who was never free
of guilt or ghost
that took turns with
their haunting of her
heart and soul and
those of her baby,
who nursed at the
breast of Lot’s wife.
©Dana Hughes 3.4.25
Furthermore... 
Fascinating. I went back and reread the story of Lot in Gen 19, and your angle of vision on the daughter enriches that tale. I was riveted by your image of the “salt embrace” of the mother (Lot’s wife) that the daughter never escapes. Hard poem, but worth the time to read it. Typical of your spare, unflinching style to look at such a terrifying text and see in it the beginnings of a poem. Thanks for this.
By the way, if you’re interested, I’m posting my own writing on my WordPress blog, ShapeandSubstance.com. I think you’re a subscriber, but if not I’d love to have your reactions to what you read there. All the best, P.
Dearest Paul:
First, thank you for sharing your poetry blog with me. I’ve missed reading your work and I need the power of your words these days.
Second, thank you for your comments on my latest. It’s always delightful to hear what you think of my musings. The poem is autobiographical, not biblical. I am the child of Lot.