Lachrymal

I was a tear in a blue glass vial,
as salted as the sea
our vessel drifted over.

Days in blue sky and water,
sun on skin, wind on our faces,
at the mercy of currents,

a boat of Marys—Magdalene,
who cried for the life she saw in a mirror,
Mary Salome and the other, Jacobe,

with young Sara who wept
for the desert she left.
The moon was already full

when our small craft nudged
into Rhone delta mud
and we wrapped our dry mouths
around a new tongue.