P A P E R S H I P S

We all reach that age
when it hurts to ask your mother
to pour your milk--
.
when the smallest glass cups
fill up so quickly,
splatter big white puddles on the floor.
.
And, why would you tell anyone
that you're little
that you can't do it by yourself?
.
So the puddles just get deeper,
and you're writing "I need you"
poems, folding them into little
.
paper ships, sailing them across the
kitchen, crashing into the refrigerator
like a boulder--
.
struggling to catch your breath,
to swim, to wade to the tile-island
where your mother is chopping onions
.
with her hair tied back, and
you think she's crying
because she missed you
.
but she just looks you over,
soaking wet, dripping milk,
tells you to clean up that mess
.
to ask for help next time.