Umbrellas
‘People who carry an umbrella can never…understand the moral significance of war.’
Mussolini
This is you holding it out to catch the rain,
as I run with a streaked, flooded face.
This is you standing still and watching the water,
eyes up to where the gutters moan and sob.
This is you in bed, paper unfolded, at repose
whilst I lick the back of your neck,
taste the salt at the corners of your eyelids.
This is you at a slow pace taking my hand,
letting my viscose skin peel off,
not speeding away to self created disaster,
stretching your legs.
This is you after a punch, with a bruised cheek
storm cloud purple,
and of course I’m crying, but you don’t say no
to the painkillers, the bag of frozen peas,
guiding my hand to where it hurts.
This is you laughing and saying ‘you should have seen the other guy,’
who I know is at home, smooth and untouched,
square white teeth still in their gums,
or having another unnecessary drink, safe and barely conscious.
This is you near sleep, where what you did and what you could have done
hang like intricate, pulsating threads across your breath,
and this is you with the rain pouring down outside
and me in your arms,
dry.
Rebecca Tamas is a London born poet, about to begin a PhD in Creative and Critical Writing at UEA. She has a pamphlet forthcoming with Salt this Autumn, the working title of which is ‘The Ophelia Letters.’ She likes gin and tonics and the Hampstead Ladies Pond.