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