Bowls II

One stacked inside the other,
I carried them to you the way
a child tight-ropes down the hall holding a cup of coffee,
white knuckled, with both hands to his mother.

and she does not mind afterwards,
getting out of bed, padding down the hall, content
and proud, with the empty dishes,
the trailed round drops of coffee, puddles of affection
she almost doesn’t want to scrub out.
The carpet is so threadbare already.

These bowls, an offering. Completely
empty except for each other.
Their ill-fit rattling, my hands
trembling like wind on still water.

Set the bowls down side by side.
Do not criticize the chips, the wear.
Imagine only
what they can hold.