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The Lives of Sarah

My cousin turned to salt when Sodom fell.
I taste it still, as though my lips are pressed
forever to her own. I’ll spend the rest
of time remembering her name. To hell
with tears! I haven’t cried since Ishmael
was born. God hears!—but not my prayers, I guess.
Besides, I’m dried up now: dry eyes, dry breasts,
dry womb. My husband says it’s just as well.

I won’t say “Abraham.” I call him “dear,”
since Abram was the man I used to know.
He hears God’s word, but I speak too. That’s half
as good, I think. But all I do is laugh
when guests suggest I’m pregnant even though
we haven’t touched each other in a year.

Leah Schwartz is a poet living outside of Philadelphia.