The Sea of Lot

        We started out from Amman.
        
        The road is a scant thread
        that follows the form
        of the mountains closely,
        swerving and veering
        on the edge of gravity
        as we skirt potholes,
        continuously fringed by chasms
        of every size and sort.
        Zoom past lorries
        and trucks brightly painted.
        Drive and drive
        in a lunar landscape as
        the terrain straightens and sinks.
        
        Check points slow us down,
        but mostly the young, serious soldiers,
        dressed in olive and armed,
        just wave us through.
    
        We arrived at the Dead Sea
        unexpectedly-
        Not at the Spa, where
        people go to float
        and read a paper
        as if lounging comfortably...
        No, not the Spa, but on past all people,
        just happenstance-
        bump off the road
        and bump down so close
        to what seems to be a cliff drop;
        but it wasn't an edge
        just a little stubble of a hill                             
        for feet to race down the shifting
        stone sand and arms to reach out
        into the warm breeze
        
        and skip stones in the buoyant Salt Sea.

        Take a stick and stir,
        the minerals come up like oil
        clinging to the surface
        following the path of the stick
        and elaborating on it's every motion.

        We had such a pleasant interlude
        Enshallah


        Let the children play.

        Back to the car;
        bump back to the road
        rumble jerk
        over what would be a meadow
        if it were green:
        It feels like driving
        over a plowed field,
        deeply furrowed
        and thrashing us about
        until we reach
        the smooth macadam
        of the new road
        along the Dead Sea

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab