I fall asleep drunk and dream of Lee Harvey Oswald –
in the dream, I’m his wife, the one he beats,
and we have a baby who knows how to open doors.
He’s not faithful. He has sex with a schoolteacher on the front seats
of our car, and when she gets out, it’s raining. The rain
is a sheet over the front steps, puddles on the walkway,
but something pink or red floats on top. Petals?
He’s going to kill her and I wake up. When I remember the dream
I wonder if someone I’m having sex with is going to kill me.
I remember sitting at the window in the apartment in Baltimore
icing my wrist and face and how guilty it felt,
that I hadn’t made it work. The summer of cicadas.
Their bodies three deep. I can’t tell if I’m still that woman.
I can’t tell if it’s going to happen again.
• This piece was originally published on Lambda Literary Review.
Monica Wendel is the author of No Apocalypse, which was selected by Bob Hicok as the winner of the Georgetown Review poetry manuscript contest. She is assistant professor of composition and creative writing at St. Thomas Aquinas College.