your body is not yours

michelle milner

a man on the train

coos at me

like the romantic

warbling of a dove

to remind me

my skin

belongs to

the city, to

hungry eyes

who devour, to

empty hotel hallways

where guests mind their business,

perhaps to a fault,

or sustain innocence,

while their neighbors unzip

under three glasses of cheap

rosée and music

made to drown

sounds of resistance

as our bodies are disrespected

receptacles of waste

like communal bathrooms