Under My Umbrella


You really have difficulty
Giving a place to an umbrella.
She is your protection from the sun
And your roof for the tireless rain
And is, forever battle-ready for a scuffle,
For the woman in the bus
Warding off a slimy pervert

And an umbrella looks beautiful falling off the sky
Just ask Mary Poppins and she will say so.
And still she can be ominous
Like the sneaky Penguin in the Batman comics
And yet there’s nothing sweeter
Than a baby polka-dot umbrella hoisted
By a little girl walking in the rain

And the umbrella as my wife tells me
Is a little hotel room for beach blow jobs
And a little sunburn protection for the Galle tourist
And the same accesory was a forgotten ally to man
Until a catchy Rihanna song, that made
Her jump up the charts
To the palmed-grip of a Barbadian girl.

And I tell you, my story of the umbrella
It is the closest I’ve gotten to walking with
A woman in my 20s. I remember when a sporty
Girl got underneath my umbrella
To walk a few paces down to buy an ice cream
In the pouring rain. She was a symbol
Of proximity I had always missed, a gesture
I hid in my bag, a little token
For the damsel in distress and a forgotten cupid
In metals rods and synthetic fabric.

And “under my umbrella” is not just a song.
It is where vows are exchanged, longings are undressed
As summer cotton hugs the rain-fed garments
It is where you find man and woman, rain-fed, wind-blown
Love-caressed and heart-loaned and a little horizon
Where the waves tumble to, making the body
Tangled like a braised knot, cuffed
In to a different world….

Two flesh wildered by the monsoon
Blowing inside to out. Anatomical landslides
Slipping underneath a little umbrella
Into one amorphous slurry
Of crumbly brown slush.

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