by Mark Jackley

I was going to write some crap about how my maple tree
blooms like an umbrella,
shielding me, oh barf…

when suddenly I remembered
the angry downpour of your words
mashed down on the paper, front and back, several pages

tucked under my windshield wiper,
and I can’t recall a thing
you said but can’t forget the way you made my blood boil

and my heart swell to know
you cared enough to rip me
like a hungry badger. That was poetry,

a scalding rain no blade
could ever wipe away, as if I ever really
wanted to stay dry.