DAMP UMBRELLA

Erika Fayyazi-Mickle

Pale moonlight, misty night,
Stars hung up – I’ll blame the weather, not my eyes.
I left town long before May,
I should have known it’s white hot to stay the same.

Spring hung me up –
Like a trench coat full of pigeons that have never seen a dove –
The pitcher, far too heavy, over the handle into dusk
And drain across the tile like growth’s what makes enough.

So now I am standing at the last place I want to be,
Shaking off the tears, pub lights bleed into a mockery
Across the gravelled floor.

The night may be much clearer than my head is at this hour,
The clouds rolling blackly down another pasture,
All these paper skeletons that harden into plaster.
I’m not dry.
White knuckles stay clutching my umbrella.