Tears in Sodom
Sometimes prayers don’t have words.
They take the shape of tears and slip in rivulets out of tidal pools of glassy eyes.
They flow down to collect salty in corners of the mouth.
“Oh taste and see that the Lord is good.”
I am the salt of the earth.
Am I the salt of the earth?
Salt tears, sting, and I want to spit them out.
I want to be sweet.
I want to be nice.
I want everyone to like me.
But I am grainy and course.
I want the sugar sweet,
What is easy to swallow.
I was made to preserve,
To flavor lives,
To serve up grace-----and truth.
Self-talk mocks when the prophecy is dire.
Is salty crying for the weak?
I want to be strong.
I want to be determined.
If I turn back I risk
Becoming a pillar,
A statue memorializing grief.
Even as deliverance lies before,
I risk letting the ‘ayes’ have it.
And if do---- the one who loses will be me.
My prayers take the shape of tears.
Stumbling through a salty puddle,
Fire falls behind me.
I don’t look back.