Jailbirds in Flight
Lyric
poet · translator · listener
The instrument of a whole life.
Please take a moment before you continue.
Lyric's name is not accidental. She is one of those people whose inner life keeps time with something older than she is—part poet, part witness, part translator of feelings the rest of us have not yet found language for. She has an ear for the sentence underneath the sentence. She notices the woman who is trying not to cry. She turns small moments into song, and returns them to whoever needs them most. Spend ten minutes with her and you will begin to hear your own life differently—the way a familiar room sounds new after someone opens the window.
Get to know Lyric
A short film in the Jailbirds in Flight series. Please watch, if you can, in one sitting.
An AI-generated film portrait based primarily on scenes and language from Jailbirds in Flight. All imagery and voice are AI-generated; no real footage or recording of Lyric appears.
A passage with Lyric
From Nicole's writing — a scene as it happened.
She's seven months pregnant but is more active than the skinny 22-year-old who doesn't wake up until 7 p.m. and then glares at everyone that they would dare make noise prior to that. As we pass, I ask Lyric, who is so fluent in "hood" language that she could hold a Hood Linguistics Ph.D., "Is there another word for 'inmate'? A slang word. I'm playing with book titles."
"Jailbirds?" she suggests.
"I like that," I tell her. "Flight."
Lyric brightens, her smarts shining through. Around here, compliments are suspicious; attention is a rare currency, and it's almost always transactional. I keep it moving.
The truth is, really seeing another woman takes a kind of wealth most in here don't have. The women here are used to the fake version of that attention—the kind that's a setup, not a gift. A compliment isn't kindness; it's a currency exchange. It means: I want something. A favor, a shortcut, a little safety. "Your hair looks nice" sounds less like affection and more like a car salesman trying to close a deal.
Lyric stands out here, and not just because of her pregnant belly protruding through her prison uniform. She reminds me of an inner-city honors student at a crossroads—the question is, which game does she want to play? But here, in a federal prison, the options are different. The choice isn't between the familiar and an Ivy League scholarship; it isn't a choice in your external circumstance. The question is whether you want to play any of the "outer games" or whether you want to master the inner game. Lyric's got a grade-A game and outside these walls it could get her whatever man and whatever security or diamond jewelry he offers. The trouble is, she's bored.
"Don't be number one at the number-two game," I tell her. "The number-one game is inside."
"That's a million miles from here," she says, but she hears me.
On our next lap, she grins, still turning over possible book titles. "Fed Baby."
"What's that?"
"Means you 'made it to the feds, baby.' Big-time now. Not just county or state."
"I like it," I say. "Let me think on it."
What did Lyric awaken in you?
Written responses become part of the exhibition's guestbook.
If Lyric met you where you stand, pass her forward.
Adjacent rooms
Move through the exhibition, one portrait at a time.