This morning when she pours the milk
into the child’s cup, she doesn’t stop.
She pours until the cup is full, until
it spills across the counter, ’til it spills
onto the floor. She pours and pours
until the kitchen is flooded in milk,
it is up to her knees, it is up to her waist,
it is dammed against the kitchen door,
which she opens, then she floats the creamy tide
into morning, riding atop the pearly tide.
With one hand, she waves at her neighbors,
with the other she continues to pour the milk.
She is surfing now through the streets of town,
past the bank, past the school, past the crowd
who has gathered to stare. “Oh,” they say,
with a shake of their heads, “she has really lost it
this time, bless her heart,” and they step
on the curb to keep their feet from getting wet,
and she smiles and blows them a one-handed kiss,
and with her other hand she pours and pours.