I think about them huddled together,
a mass of shivering bodies, the moans
shaping themselves into chords.
There is a music to martyrdom--
an accidental push towards beauty,
towards a sound that wakes you
halfway through the humid night
like a junebug rattling against a screen.
To ease my mind, I set out alone
in the night. I can’t stop walking.
I pass one train station after another
and even though I feel as if
this is the wrong time of night,
the wrong part of town
to be wearing this dress,
the wrong place to not cover
my chest at night, I keep going.