Poetry — December 5, 2011 13:12 — 1 Comment

And Still I Did Have No Umbrella – Rebecca Bridge

I showed Billy this little thing and I did know
that perhaps I shouldn’t.  I’d been
carrying it around for quite some time and I
showed him.  At first he said not a thing.
He said nothing but quite loudly and
I put the little thing back where I kept it.  Then I
also said not a thing.  I felt shameful, but
still a bit relieved.  We went to a movie.
We went out for dinner and then, after,
we came back home.  We went to a movie.
We went to one more movie and then we
once again came back home.  We said things.
I said, “I did not need an umbrella tonight because it
was not raining.”  Billy said, “If it had been
raining, you still would not have needed
an umbrella because this city we live in
is warm just now.”  Billy said, “The fog is
so low but then I am not.”  Billy said,
“We should see movies more often.”
I said, “My skin feels as if someone has been
kissing it.”  He moved as if to kiss it, but
then he did not.  We did not speak of the little thing
and how I had shown him.  In fact, we
stopped speaking at all because it was not that
kind of night.  Still, in other ways, there were many things
that we said and we said them so loudly and so loudly.
From our balcony, we watched the transformers blow
out in a line like the city was giving us fireworks.
I said, “It’s like the city is giving us its night.”
I did not even feel silly and then neither of us
said not a thing.  We were not speaking and yet I
heard Billy whispering and whispering to me from
somewhere of the little thing that I had shown him.
He asked to see it and then again he asked
to see it and then again and then he asked
to see it.


Rebecca Bridge is a poet, essayist, and screenwriter living in Seattle. Maybe a novelist, too, who can tell, but she's working on it. Her work can be found in a lot of places, including The Boston Review, Sixth Finch, notnostrums, Can We Have Our Ball Back, The Columbia Poetry Review, and Weird Deer. She likes climbing, sitting, and rolling over.

One Comment

  1. […] stopped drinking root beer floats when I realized they were disgusting. But local poet Rebecca Bridge assures me of their deliciousness, particularly this one, which she claims tasted like a […]

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What am I?

Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies

Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,

Scientists can't find me.

Januswise I make us men;
Was my image then—

Remind me:

The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…

Tick, Tock: Divine me.

-- Richard Kenney