More Pillar of Salt Than a Miracle.

The body as a collection site.
My body as a mine.
My body never mine.

Not really.

Always others’. First, Mother. Then M/other. Then no one's. Until strangers came for me.
And I left the orphanage for my new life at a new home with a new name and new future.

Most days I’m more pillar of salt than a miracle.
Can you blame me?
I never asked to be called wonder
But I did look back. My choice. I always look back.

I hear the cries of the babies in cribs besides mine.
I hear my own grief join in the cacophony.

We know memory is stored in the body.
We can’t always choose what memories stay in our mind.
I don’t want to forget where I came from.
Surely a pillar of salt can be just as holy, if not more than, being whole.
Can you really call me disobedient for glancing back after I left?

My choice.