On the escalator
at a Chicago train
station, a man of
probably twice
my age and half
my height

decides it is
totally appropriate
to jam his fingers
up my skirt
from behind.

(Hint: It’s not.
My phone case
says “Touch Me
and YOU DIE”)

At first, I am
too startled to
speak. He asks
if I am American,
but concludes
with a slimy
certainty
that I must
be Chinese.
I am still angry
at myself for
being a frozen
feminist. For
not swallowing
my tongue, but
misplacing it
altogether.

My friends say
that I should
not expect
any differently
from this city;
this city that
talks with her
mouth full and
forgets to say
thank you.

But I know
Chicago is not
the problem.

I have seen
Chicago hold
her doors open
for so long,
the hinges
got stuck.
I have seen
Chicago offer
groceries while
her own stomach
whines. I know
Chicago to be
kind, kind,
kind.

But like all
charming things,
vile things live inside.