My grandmother keeps six umbrellas in her car.
Pale banana yellow, red, black-and-white striped, like a bug
they lie in the trunk and the passenger’s foot room,
shuttered
When opened, in rain or indoors to scare my sister,
my umbrella’s wings elope; soar up, curved,
a synthetic golden ratio
that isn’t perfect when
it jams
and I can’t close it
and so I hold it, sopping,
the fabric dripping tears,
on the train ride home
And isn’t that a strange, murky word, umbrella
deep, cavernous, underground tunnels dug with the spear at
the tip, smoothed with the satiny snap at the waist,
guarded slowly by the metal grip
I think on the train that umbrellas are personal
more than rings even, favorite T-shirts,
photographs.
The woman next to me has a pink Olympic stadium
a sharp green shield
a fearless dome, maroon,
and my own golden ratio is luscious brown
perhaps from tunneling.
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