Janelle Tan

i hadn’t failed until i watched your back
trembling in the dark window.
turning away to pick up
the fallen comforter,
i wanted to say, don’t look at me
like this—
backfiring with want
as the dark turned you sharp.
those days, light a commodity to save,
i kept looking into the windows
of dark rooms to watch
you next to me.
you, tidying your hair
in the reflection,
bright against the jumble
of construction—
i held on to you
out of the corner of my eye.
some sanctuary.

for christina yuna lee i am patient
as the mace in my hand.
on my way to some party
at which i will burst into brilliant laughter
while a friend poses in my fur,
rain stabs the roofs,
every step around me the sound
of daggers.
the small god on my wrist clacks
against the wine bottle under my arm—
last year, when we bought mace en masse,
i made an altar of my grandmother.
tonight, chrystie street is dripping
in the same prayer.
the rain urgent. an ambulance
a cry.