Chrystie Street
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.



























