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.