The first woman who ever wept
was appalled at what stung
her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
Saltwater, seawater.
How was it possible?
Hadn’t she and the man
spent many days moving
upland to where the grass 
flourished, where the stream
quenched their thirst with sweet water?
How could she have carried these sea drops
as if they were precious seeds;
where could she have stowed them?
She looked at the watchful gazelles
and the heavy-lidded frogs;
she looked at glass-eyed birds
and nervous, black-eyed mice.
None of them wept, not even the fish
that dripped in her hands when she caught them.
Not even the man. Only she
carried the sea inside her body.