Hannah Louise Poston

The Pink Umbrella

 

The pink umbrella spread apart its crepe
when you shoved it into shape.

Its handle was a neat brass post
thick as a woman's thumb at most

and hardly longer than a jawbone.
Its skinny spine was rattle-prone.

Seized beneath a nimbostratus sky,
it could have kept me dry,

but wasn't big enough to shelter two,
even walking arm-in-arm with you.

The pink umbrella had twelve ribs
that ended in twelve safety nibs.

I loved it open, in the rain's roar,
I loved it open, drying on the floor,

but it was breathtaking wrapped,
half as thin as my wrist when snapped

closed and dangling on its jewelry-chain.
I loved it best on days it didn't rain.