All of her was hand-me-downs that didn’t quite fit
like how she said “bless you” so politely
it made me want to sneeze again.
I remember the vacant stairs of her house,
the lone death march to her room.
How she wouldn’t come to the door;
she wouldn’t greet me, meet me.
Please Orpheus, see me.
She’s a white dress,
white toes in white triexta carpet,
white teeth chewing wind-faded lips.
Reaching the summit in mystery,
sunrise and sunset suspend for her gravity,
when I’d whisper open the door a peek.
Usually, it was just a wall of pillows,
her thrifted, laden closet,
lips sutured, and my ghost,
a shadow of Eurydice.
Shelby Schultz is a third-year Radio/Television/Film and Asian American Studies student from Dallas, Texas. She is currently working on a poetry project about Kitty Genovese.