I inherited a hoop skirt from mom as her
life slipped away (she had remarried.)
For years I wore it for deluxe events:
proms, Legion Hut dances, once even
I wore it often over my jeans for comfort and style,
but I never………….quite………..
………..got the hang of it.
I loved the dreams it came with:
Scarlett O’Hara-esque; Marilyn Monroe
Still hated it for dreams contravened, so
I made my move:
I sold it to a scrap-iron dealer
who dropped folding money in my palm.
Off to the landing strip,
told the well-worn pilot my plight.
This was my inheritance—supposed to
make me a proper girl,
a desirable girl,
a marriageable girl. Instead, better teach me to fly.
So I learned to strap in first, clear the props,
and read instruments;
learned to navigate in fog;
land without lights,
and French-inhale Turkish cigarettes.
Now and again–on a mountain riverbank
and listening to the wind
what I missed, not being a proper girl.