Needing Tears

Baby born fresh, raw neck, no breath, but creeping tears. 

She heals murder of elements by weeping tears. 

Into the shrivelled air she sobs, pumps plump again, 

with one wet wail it does not dry — no heat in tears.

Between her siren squall, she gulps the strangled sky,

thick clouds of all our secrets that are keeping tears.

First to the bitter taste, she grants a burp and belch, 

down trickles white and bubbles clear as leaking tears. 

Snivels in snot to draw the salted water up

then spits it back out clean — the fish are needing tears. 

The algae sounds a lighter green when she can hear, 

a sinking, starving sage now swimming, feeding tears. 

Oven we made won’t burn claycake, soil scone, to crumb;

our lithosphere without her would be eating tears. 

The fauna will appreciate all that she’s done —

see fuller fur, see flourished young within her seeping tears.

The flora, shoot up with her legs; show gratitude,

give caps of knees slight stains with wake of sleeping tears.

I will not name her Evie like her nothing mam;

know we are nothing with our weak and fleeting tears?