Lot’s wife flees Kabul.

The drone of planes is whining overhead.

The sand beneath me burns my naked toes.

The wind tugs at my burqa. My fear grows.

My husband, crying: “Flee, or we’ll be dead!”

We run. We have been running since the dawn.

My daughters—to be married!—run beside.

My husband, never slowing in his stride—

“Our home,” he says. “Our land will soon be gone.”

Our home. Is this the great, just wrath of God

For crimes against the stranger and the poor?

These bombs that bloom with sulfur in a roar—

Am I supposed to sit back and applaud

The deaths of friends and family, hopes and fears?

I’ll salt the ground I walk on with my tears.