Against Storm, Against Glib Thunder

(after Timothy Donnelly)

When I was the red umbrella, her lover, I made a precision of hoist.
We understood stairs, my girl. We waited the hall, its curse, ‘til the sky
undid clouds, uncoiled in loose slip of rain and I waited for the first hushed sun
to pattern after a harp above her, a sure sign of song as tarp, a sun against
patter, against storm, against glib thunder rumble, against chatter, we rubbed.

When I was the red umbrella, her lover, I made a precision of hoist
and sold metal as a system of limb, as a static frigate to keep red gular pouch
above her, so she might know love as cover, such awkward inflation and
swarm below her that she might know the egg of warmth, a nest of articulating
spread. Without rust. Without the gait of heavy chest to lift off her in the sun.

When I was the red umbrella, her love, I made a precision of hoist among her.
I stood down when she had an army of metals, when she claimed command, armed
with finches, mad with rain. I would never invade any cover for shelter. I never put
her country at thirst. I wanted to leave ranks loved, or wet, depending on the map on
which artillery she wanted posed. I snapped, whenever. Whenever she snapped.

When I was the red umbrella, her love, I made a precision of hoist. And got
so good you couldn’t see me erect. Prone I arched like the snake of a vine, the bank
of a tree limb. I gathered moisture from air and I put buds in her black wrath
of hair. I wanted all bees to swim us, roped through breeze, our spiny ribs licked
into a sway of combs they stung to. I wanted us open. So she could see me drape.