dream of a gibson girl

I dreamt you thus:

you looked the perfect picture,

as if you had been out in newport

and john singer sargent

was gonna paint your portrait.

Medusa-hair beautifully red

gathered up like a mushroom,

tea gown bright like

a field shawled by

fresh fallen flakes of snow.

I wished to wrap my arms

round about your waist

but first you had to punch me,

your default greeting with a fist,

looked up to see you cackle

and admonish

‘o, don’t be cross

that is how you’re meant to flirt

in the imperial valley’.