The blind tap syncopation into the street and I try to speak. I’m filled with holes, gaps, shot through, riddled, imprisoned in a prism. You can’t bail on language, she says. The roar of captive fireflies is deafening. We take it to the theaters: flicker fade flick, blankety blank blank. She drops in the casket of a balloon. I want us to be okay, she says. Are those my legs in the river at an odd angle? I say. Aren’t you happy? she says. Rip its seams and it seems I’d be happier in my birthday suit. It’s not your birthday, she says. It sure feels like it doing what I said I never would.
Fitz Fitzgerald is the descendant of an encounter between Gertrude Stein and F. Scott when Bolton Hill was the “Gin Belt” of Baltimore. Work of his recently appeared in Open Letters, Artichoke Haircut, Everyday Genius, Espresso Ink, Boog City, Seltzer, and What Weekly.