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.

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.