On the night of August 24, a man masturbated to me on the subway.  

People I told:
That night, the internet. Then, a friend,
in confidence. Two weeks later, five or six
at a bar, some I barely knew. 

Words I want to put back into my mouth:
                           I’m not even that hot.

People I did not tell: The police. The train car.  My roommates. 

I stared him down, if that makes a difference.
                           He looked south, across the water.
                           You can see Lady Liberty there, in the daytime. 

                           I was so worried he’d start again.

            At the bar, finally, someone,
Why didn’t you—?

The week after, I stopped
masturbating. Writing. Worrying
how to walk down the street.
Avoiding strangers’ eyes.