Lot's Wife

Do you know anything about Lot and his wife?

Lot (/lɒt/; Hebrew: לוֹט, Modern Lot, Tiberian Lôṭ ; "veil" or "covering"^[1]) is a person mentioned in the biblical Book of Genesischapters 11–14 and 19. Notable episodes in his life include his travels with his uncle Abram (Abraham), his flight from the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, during which Lot's wife became a pillar of salt, and the seduction by his daughters so that they could bear children.

Lot’s Wife

Anna Akhmatova (Russia)

And the just man trailed God’s shining agent,

over a black mountain, in his giant track,

while a restless voice kept harrying his woman:

“It’s not too late, you can still look back

at the red towers of your native Sodom,

the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed,

at the empty windows set in the tall house

where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed.”

A single glance: a sudden dart of pain

stitching her eyes before she made a sound . . .

Her body flaked into transparent salt,

and her swift legs rooted to the ground.

Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem

too insignificant for our concern?

Yet in my heart I never will deny her,

who suffered death because she chose to turn.

From Poems of Akhmatova, by Anna Akhmatova and translated by Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward.

Same poem, translated by Richard Wilbur:

The just man followed then his angel guide

Where he strode on the black highway, hulking and bright;

But a wild grief in his wife's bosom cried,

Look back, it is not too late for a last sight!

Of the red towers of your native Sodom, the square

Where once you sang, the gardens you shall mourn,

And the tall house with empty windows where

You loved your husband and your babes were born.

She turned, and looking on the bitter view

Her eyes were welded shut by mortal pain;

Into transparent salt her body grew,

And her quick feet were rooted in the plain.

Who would waste tears upon her? Is she not

The least of our losses, this unhappy wife?

Yet in my heart she will not be forgot

Who, for a single glance, gave up her life.

Lot's Wife

by Wislawa Szymborska (Poland)

They say I looked back out of curiosity.

But I could have had other reasons.

I looked back mourning my silver bowl.

Carelessly, while tying my sandal strap.

So I wouldn't have to keep staring at the righteous nape

of my husband Lot's neck.

From the sudden conviction that if I dropped dead

he wouldn't so much as hesitate.

From the disobedience of the meek.

Checking for pursuers.

Struck by the silence, hoping God had changed his mind.

Our two daughters were already vanishing over the hilltop.

I felt age within me. Distance.

The futility of wandering. Torpor.

I looked back setting my bundle down.

I looked back not knowing where to set my foot.

Serpents appeared on my path,

spiders, field mice, baby vultures.

They were neither good nor evil now--every living thing

was simply creeping or hopping along in the mass panic.

I looked back in desolation.

In shame because we had stolen away.

Wanting to cry out, to go home.

Or only when a sudden gust of wind

unbound my hair and lifted up my robe.

It seemed to me that they were watching from the walls of Sodom

and bursting into thunderous laughter again and again.

I looked back in anger.

To savor their terrible fate.

I looked back for all the reasons given above.

I looked back involuntarily.

It was only a rock that turned underfoot, growling at me.

It was a sudden crack that stopped me in my tracks.

A hamster on its hind paws tottered on the edge.

It was then we both glanced back.

No, no. I ran on,

I crept, I flew upward

until darkness fell from the heavens

and with it scorching gravel and dead birds.

I couldn't breathe and spun around and around.

Anyone who saw me must have thought I was dancing.

It's not inconceivable that my eyes were open.

It's possible I fell facing the city.

About Lot's Wife

by Kristine Batey (USA)

While Lot, the conscience of a nation,

struggles with the Lord,

she struggles with the housework.

The City of Sin is whereshe raises the children.

Ba'al or Adonai--

Whoever is God--

the bread must still be made

and the doorsill swept.

The Lord may kill the children tomorrow,

but today they must be bathed and fed.

Well and good to condemn your neighbors' religion,

but weren't they there

when the baby was born,

and when the well collapsed?

While her husband communes with God,

she tucks the children into bed.

In the morning, when he tells her of the judgment,

[that is, God's decision to destroy the city]

she puts down the lamp she is cleaning

and calmly begins to pack.

In between bundling up the children

and deciding what will go,

she runs for a moment

to say goodbye to the herd,

gently patting each soft head

with tears in her eyes for the animals that will not understand.

She smiles blindly to the woman

who held her hand at childbed.

It is easy for eyes that have always turned to heaven

not to look back;

those who have been--by necessity--drawn to earth

cannot forget that life is lived from day to day.

Good, to a God, and good in human terms

are two different things.

On the breast of the hill, she chooses to be human,

and turns, in farewell--

and never regrets

the sacrifice.