Flashbacking

Prairie girl dress pulled over my head pecking my way into a smiling black trash bag of pinafores and lace 19th century frocks humming with ribbon and bows one maroon another aqua another in rainbow scales of a pungent mackerel landed during a getaway trip in winter all low-cut with bodices wire faces in bones hopeful for corsets a teasing elegance asking my longtime husband rocky mountain of a man to wear one with me take him on my arm promenade under the pinkening cheeks of the sky to the envy of neighborhood wives letter waving at the bag’s bottom requesting I care for an infant three miniature poodles for free but those were contract terms from cheaper times and I feel a little bad I no longer can afford to say yes

V4
December 29, 2025

Dreaming Out Loud

The prairie girl dress I don before pecking my way into a smiling black trash bag of pinafores and lace 19th century frocks humming with ribbon and bows one in maroon another in aqua another in rainbow scales of a pungent mackerel landed during a getaway trip in winter all low-cut with bodices and wire faces in bones hopeful for corsets and a teasing elegance and asking my longtime husband a rocky mountain of a man to wear one with me so I can take him on my arm and promenade under the pinkening cheeks of the sky to the envy of the neighbors and the letter waving at the bottom requesting I care for an infant and three miniature poodles for free but those were the contract terms from cheaper times and now I feel bad I cannot afford to say yes

V3 December 16, 2025 

Dreaming Out Loud

They are softer now, but nonetheless odd and telling:
the Holly Hobby dress I don before diving into a smiling
black trash bag of pinafores and lace, 19th century frocks, 
dappled with ribbon and bows, one in blue, another, maroon, 
both low-cut with bodices and wire, waiting spaces for corsets
and a teasing elegance, and me, asking my longtime husband 
to wear one with me so I can take him on my arm and promenade 
to the envy of the neighbors. And the letter I’d received asking
me to babysit our former cleaner’s infant and dog again, hold them  
both close in their tiny home, feed them, walk them, six dollars 
an hour, long days, every day, but those were the contract terms 
from cheaper times, and now I feel bad that I cannot afford 
to say yes. Yes, these dreams, so unsimilar to last year’s, when
my boss, a rocky mountain of a man, came at me with an AK-47,
me on the elevator’s thin and ugly orange carpet, back contorted  
into the frigid steel of the corner, arm, hand, hyperextended in 
front of my face, as if I could block the bullets. How I prayed aloud 
he would stop, for the doors to close, but woke before either 
had the chance. And thirty or thirty-five years ago, that one where I 
murdered my rapist, crossbow lodged inches between the hills 
of his chest, me with the feeling I’d put down a rabid dog, brute, 
addle minded addict, football player gone to seed, all the while 
whispering, you deserved it, you bastard…. and then the one I’d had 
as a child, my father shot through his helmet, his bleeding head 
on my lap, both of us crying for different reasons, both in filthy fatigues, 
the insanity of Viet Nam or Korea or WWII screaming around the two of us. 
I think I told him I loved him, but I might have added that later, because 
isn’t that what you should say whenever somebody passes, especially 
a relative, especially a father, before you open your eyes for real?  

V2 December 3, 2025
 
Dreaming Out Loud

They are softer now, but
nonetheless odd and telling:
the Holly Hobby dress I don
before diving into a smiling black
trash bag of pinafores and lace,
19th century frocks, dappled
with ribbon and bows, one in blue,
one in maroon, both low-cut with
bodices and wire, waiting spaces 
for corsets and a teasing elegance, 
and me, asking my husband to wear one 
with me so I can take him on my arm 
and promenade to the envy of the neighbors. 
And the letter I’d received asking me 
to babysit our former cleaner’s dog and infant,
care for them both for six dollars an hour,
long days, every day, but those were 
the contract terms from cheaper times, 
and now I cannot afford to say yes. Yes, 
these dreams, unsimilar to last year’s, 
when my boss, a rocky mountain of a man, 
came at me with an unnamed automatic rifle,  
me on the floor of the elevator, back as far 
against the frigid steel as I could be, arm,
hand, hyperextended in front of my face,
as if I could block the bullets. How I prayed
for the doors to close, but awakened before 
they ever had a chance. And thirty or thirty-five 
years ago, that one where I murdered my rapist, 
crossbow sticking from deep in his oozing chest,
me apologizing from silent lips because  
somewhere, I still felt bad for him, that brute
of an addle minded addict, football 
player gone to seed, all the while thinking,
you deserved it, you bastard, and then the one 
I had as a child, my father shot through a helmet, 
dying with his head on my lap, both of us bleeding, 
dressed in filthy fatigues, the insanity of Vietnam or
Korea or WWII screaming around us both. I think 
I told him I loved him, but I might have added that later,
because isn’t that what you should say whenever 
somebody dies, before you open your eyes, for real?  

V1 December 2, 2025

Author's note: Here you see the progression of a surreal poem I worked on with my poetry mentor Mike Maggio. The prompt was "write about a dream."  It was interesting to see how the poem took on a life of its own. The versions move from stream of consciousness, starting with literal dreams I've had in my lifetime, to something more concrete and yet still oddly disjointed. I'd say the final product is a conversation on gender roles, stereotypes and a brief history of what it means to live in a female body.