on spring

she wears the kind of scarf that binds her temples like a sheath,

touching and straight.

her dress is long–

to her ankles, but that doesn’t keep the draft out.


she feels the bind of her position

but only speaks to a softer place, under the skin,

tucked away like a coin purse–

only hers is one that can not open


until she can find shelter, but

not in a market, a tire dealer, or a laundromat.

she knows what is forbidden.  we all do.

she’ll have to find another place to wait.





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