Lot’s Daughters

By R. Rosenfeld

He asked me “Are you headed north?”

I nodded and he followed.

The two of us, coated in dust –

left footprints in the ash of pulverized

humans, computers, desks and towers.


We made our way side by side

through the gray Armageddon surrounding us.

Had my grandmother’s ashes floated this way

over someone else, somewhere else

nearly 60 years earlier?


After a lull, he said

“I know it’s not the right time…”

A gradual awareness stirred me,

“but I may never have a chance again…”

People had just died, burned and jumped,

“Would you like to have dinner sometime?”

I was disheveled, dirty, filthy, forlorn,

feeling as lonely and lost as Lot’s daughters.


The tear on my cheek tasted salty.


It would be laughably effortless

A far cry from my daily reality

And no questions to answer, but one.


He was handsome

And his blue Irish eyes seemed kind.

He knew nothing about me

not even my name.


The wonder and loss of this moment

in this dim drab world, burdened me.


The gold cross at his throat glinted

He asked again.

“Would you like to have dinner sometime?”


“Yes,” I said. And that part was true.

“But I’m married.”


The lie on my tongue tasted salty.


R. Rosenfeld is a writer and poet. The author can be reached at rosewrite@gmail.com

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