Tongue Lyre

Lesson

12 Lesson Flames ice the grass. Nests of hornets murmur in the smoke. Clay steams. Horses snorting ash pass barebacked. It is not enough to want to leave— consider the tapestry knotted near the hearth, the pots and pots of boiled lentils. All of the nights breathing in that one place, the dark room where dinner spices hang above the face the way wind sucks in through an open window. Lot fed the visiting angels bread his wife flattened on a stone, palm on stone, as the men of the city circled. The men of the city want to fuck the angels. Screaming horses pass Lot’s wife as she climbs the hill from the Valley of the Salt Sea— the tents below lit up like blown glass. All those nights breathing in that one dark room, remembering: blood on the thighs, wet as tongued saliva, blood staining the skin— do not enter. Do not enter. On the hill, Lot’s wife heard her past self’s hair catching fire in the city. This story is supposed to be a lesson, someone could remind me. You should not 13 look for your past self: naked below, below. Go back. Get the woman out. The men want to fuck the angels. A sheep’s on fire now, running. Turn back and get the woman out of the room. Another horse passes. Ash, the stairs must be ash now, and empty. The snapping wood ribs of the room. The cellophane lens heat casts. The woman. There won’t be any woman in the wrong bed. She’ll get out so there won’t be any woman on a hill. There won’t be any city burning behind, hot on the back of her thighs. The sweat. There won’t— be any anyone— turn back, watch. ...