We Didn’t Go to the Frick but We Had a Good Time Anyway

By Kathleen Fitzpatrick

Picking out sleep with fingers
While waiting for the F train
Late in underground
Knuckles bent and cracked but
I didn’t see any fractures around me

Did you see the tulips
The man was selling on the street?
They were drenched in fluorescent
Light I know--
But they looked so pretty anyway

Getting unbelievably high in the cold street
Knees clacking almost hard enough to hear
I shouldn’t have worn a dress that day
You placed me in vision as I shook and you smiled
It wasn’t the first time

I told you drunk if you died
I’d put flowers on your grave every week
For how long asked
My eyes were glinting by then
You felt the anticipated pain inside me
Prying my mouth
Showing my tongue
Exposing my throat
"A long time" answered

You had a knife ready
but you didn’t stab anyway
I wish I could have licked the sweat off your palms
Your grip is a sweet one
That’s what muses do to you
A cliche to get the most stoned off of

We escaped death so many times separate
We had past lives we can hardly recall
Suburbia alcohol pills a rotting lust
The fantastic variety of numbing we crowned first loves
The past half year we’ve whispered close
How I wish I knew you then
Lying on the floor I’d remind you how to breathe
It doesn’t matter now
There’s beauty in this
Trust in the art blind like trains gliding

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