Damn the rain anyway, she says,

three years old, a hand planted on her hip,

and another held up and out

in the mimic of a gesture she knows too well—

adult exasperation, peevish, wild-eyed, and dangerous.

But the mangy stuffed bunny belies it all,

dangling by an ear, a lumpy flourish.

And so again I am warned about language,

my wife having just entered the room

aims a will-you-never-learn look my way

and I’m counting myself lucky. She missed me,

hands to the window, imploring the world,

Jesus Christ, will you look at the fucking rain!

And because this is western Oregon, and the rain

blows endlessly in from the sea, we let out to play

in the garage, where I peer balefully

into the aging Volvo’s gaping maw

and try to force a broken bolt, that breaks,

my knuckles mashed into the alternator’s fins

bejeweling themselves with blood and grease.

And what stops my rail against the Swedes,

my invective against car salesman, my string

of obscenities concerning the obscenity of money,

is less her softly singing presence there

than my head slamming into the tired, sagging hood.

I’m checking for blood when I feel her touch my leg.