Don’t rub me wrong,
I season, I sting, cause tears,
I am made from tears,
taste of sorrow craved.
Do not rub me into wounds,
don’t love me too much,
I’ll gift you high blood,
bloating, muscle weakness—
Lick me from my lover’s skin,
I crust on glasses. I am Lot’s wife,
who looks back to the left
and joins the pillars of loss.
Nothing grows on the shores
of the sea I made dead.