Dream Museum

By Kathleen Fitzpatrick

was it me, or did the town undergo in flames last night? when you filled my wine glass i looked straight out the window feeling like a god. you wondered what a house fire could feel like. i told you probably nothing. we laughed into a moon that controlled the blue hue found in dead TV sets.

was it me, or did you try to push me into the water last night? i told you about all the flint i carried in my lungs. you told me my skin was a warm, leaky storm. you said i smelt of wet wood. 

i made a tapestry with my mouth. i wove you an easy, burnt barren tale twisted of gaelic and my mother’s cool, working hands. you told someone at the party my poems filled some sort of universe. i hid my face and screamed. you asked if i ever shut up? it was the first time i understood. 

you told me you shot up once in the bathroom during english classes. i told you being a catholic was enough numbing for me. we looked at the paintings and fell into a window. we never touched the ground.

was it me, or did we get too stoned in my car last night? i’m sorry if i rambled about nothing. i’m sorry if you hated my art. mostly, i’m sorry for all the apologizing. i ate that tangerine whole. i stained my shirt. you weren’t surprised. 

i heard a dog laugh at me in the street where i woke up in harlem. i couldn’t hail a cab home. it was on 119th street where i felt like a stranger. i fell into a dream instead of coping. i perfected some sort of green-sick monologue found in the attic of my head.

i thought maybe it was all of it together. in the seven, eight, nine hours i was in contact with you. i felt as if i could be hoisted from my hips into the windmills that churned the air in town and you could see me floating in such a way that would make sense. it would tell you that i’m twisted. it would tell you that yes, within this entirety of time, i was thinking about someone else who killed me in my sleep once.

Kathleen Fitzpatrick lives in Brooklyn as an MFA candidate among other things. She is to be published in The Southampton Review this spring.