I'd like to write a poem about her that embellishes nothing. No observation, just an objective being. The reader would know her furrowed brow under headphones on a Q train over Queens. What's left of the sunlight after it's fought threw Manhattan is reflected in her face. But I can't do that. There's a bird in her throat that cries and cries and claws her tongue. Its wings are breaking behind her face. She taps her foot to the rhythm.