The Second Time I Wore a Rubber Dress Was in a Dream

Outside the aged house,
bricked porch, archaic tree,
I held a white balloon
on the fringe of neighborhood.
Clutched my string, kept it just outside.
My feet anchored in sidewalk, streets
wrapped around, stretched into city.
Something winged splintered, popped,
sent it down like an angel fallen.
I wore my torn, rubber dress,
traipsed, threw hot air around the ruins
as they crumbled to the ground.

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Boston's Blizzard of '78

From many folks around the country we’re hearing reports of downed power lines and rising levels of snow accumulation. Exciting! Nothing gets us boiled like a good old fashioned blizzard. Granted, a winter storm poses significant risks to DSM: if the power’s gone, we’re gone. This makes us anxious and secretly happy. Of course, if power’s lost other means are available to keep your frenetic brains quenched. But we suspect you, like us, stalk your computer when it’s not cooperating: Damn, stupid thing! Oh, now it’s working. Anyway, while we’re concerned with snow there’s a Jihad being planned. Foreign Affairs shares the bad news. So, you think you understand music? The Times Online disagrees. Elsewhere, an author skewers the South’s racist past, a former Brooklynite considers how things are never as cool as they used to be, and the Morning News adds to the ever-expanding list of publications offering best book lists, which is great. But from our perspective, this inch of snow looks the same as any another. — Kevin Murphy

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In my thirtieth year, death kept watch. I scrubbed the kitchen floor
till the man on the porch blended with the dark. The window grew teeth
so I pulled down the blinds, muffled the talk. I coordinated my closet.
Snakes looped and fell off the hangers. Bats swooped in the hall.
There were sharks in the bathwater, wolves under the bed. With the covers
pulled high over my head I felt long arms slide round from behind,
frost fingers, icy breath along my neck. Eat rat poison, he said into my dream,
lie down for the train, and the tracks unrolled. He trudged through the mud,
towed me along the ground by my hair.

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Medeia Starfire grew up in Norman, Oklahoma, and now resides in Seattle, Washington. Recently her work appeared in ellipsis… and is forthcoming in Confrontation. She also received a Jean Neustadt Award for Poetry in 2005. If she isn’t writing, she has a camera or a paintbrush in her hand.