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poem by Leah Schwartz

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.

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