an ode to your umbrella

As the wind howls it seems to flit away, a haughty teenage girl

afraid of getting her skirt wet. You growl and attempt to shove

her back into formation, an army commander or a similitude.

I offer to share my purple lady, but your faith is unwavering:

this beaten, black, skeletal beauty is yours for the conquering.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Another gust passes by and she’s no longer a parachute jumper,

but riding in a sled, her world inside and out. The folds of her skirt,

plaited and bowed, unfurl and wring out. Your hair is now wet, rain

streaked across your cheeks almost like tears, but all you see are diamonds.

I tell you it’s not worth it, that she has seen her last. You look at me as though I’ve lost

my mind and clutch her tighter, not necessarily out of

love, but because the wind is growing stronger.

I wonder just how long the two of you can engage

in this violent dance, dysfunctional relationship.

And yet your love, as bent and tattered as it is, seems more alive

than my own.