Storm surge

She always cries over spilled milk. It hits her in
waves. She says, anyone who tells you not to cry 
has plenty. Has only the faintest notion. Has never 
watched their mother swim through couch cushions 
for nickels and dimes. Enough to buy a single serving 
carton. Tent topped. Waxy-sided. Sweating in the July 
heat. Which you—with your little kid hands, so eager
so hungry—tip over. Flailing. Watching as the flood 
tide rushes in. Storm surge taking you off your feet.

© Ren Pike