She stuffs herself in subways
just tight enough for hips
to slide past hips, palms
stuck on poles and knuckles
against knuckles, skin on
skin. Globs of glue on orange caps
must be scraped and scraped—
we get angry when glue sticks.
A blind woman watches snowflakes become yanked
from the ground and float to the sky—the train stops
suddenly and her chin falls between
the shoulder blades of a stranger.
Breath on backs the icy air floats into lungs and warms
like hands on knees build fires.
She scrapes the ice from the car she’ll never drive
and sits behind the wheel just to feel.
And riding rush hour trains to Brooklyn and back, she melts