Anywhere But Here

I hesitate to go

back, lest I be

like Lot's wife,

a pillar of salt,

Licked

and destroyed,

Or merely blown away?

And while my grandmother

Cooks something hot in a pot

That boils and sets my skin

In the kitchen,

Slick with babied fat

And sweat,

My three-year-old hand

reaching out,

Grabbing the butter

On the already-set

table,

I impale myself

With my

Own little pillar–

Too young

To look back,

But never

Too young

to placate the desire

Of "anywhere but here."