poetry by Muriel Rukeyser

Ms. Lot

Well, if he treats me like a young girl still,
That father of mine, and here’s my sister
And we’re still travelling into the hills —
But everyone on the road knows he offered us
To the Strangers when all they wanted was men,
And the cloud of smoke still over the twin cities
And mother a salt lick the animals come to —
Who’s going to want me now?
Mother did not even know
She was not to turn around and look.
God spoke to Lot, my father.
She was hard of hearing. He knew that.
I don’t believe he told her, anyway.
What kind of father is that, or husband?
He offered us to those men. They didn’t want women.
Mother always used to say:
Some normal man will come along and need you.

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