We do when we die
and if not us, then those watching
the heart pitter and plateau.
My father, when overripe watermelon
spat
all its seeds onto our kitchen table or
On the plane next to me a baby,
for mother & sleep & death
& father, too.
Tongues press to jaws by instinct. The first lesson
of flesh, taught by mothers in the womb:
sound tears from us before we know
its meaning.
Sadness turns my body blue, settling in my stomach
spilling loose, clinging to lashes,
streaking my cheeks, afraid
It will be the last thing left.
A tear spans a lifetime—
a sigh shadows us into death.
Why do I so carefully spill
the water hidden
in my bones? My grandmother warned
tears are finite— cry too much, and we dry forever.
