Rogers Memorial: A Golden Shovel by Isabel Grey

Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,–
   Have you seen her, any of you?–
Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind,
  And the garden showing through?

Glimmering eyes,–and silent, mostly,
Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr,


From “Wraith” by Edna St. Vincent Millay


Everybody who arrives behind this clouded glass window is here because they are thin,
Led inside by the near-flatline of arrhythmic hearts like Ariadne’s thread.
Our childhood breadcrumbs sprinkled at the heels of a monster exquisite
Only to ourselves. It lures us in with empty plates and curling fingers
Beckoning to a labyrinthine center, an island where our skin goes to grey.
A meat locker, these sterile halls are frigid even under scrubs and shawls.
The only shoes for this journey are socks but if you’re caught standing or leaning,
You’ll be stripped of them and given ankle bells that peel in the disinfected wind.
Around the bend is a dandelion field, a still life of a paused, ochre garden
Whose color is the first you’ve seen in months, a bilirubin showing
The healing process, spreading from within. You fasten a daisy chain to lead you through
But the whistling of a nurse blows apart the petals, each one glimmering
In a phlorescent sun and you’re lost again. Before discharge, you will grow a new pair of eyes
And scales will point to the maze’s end where their jagged needles whisper,
“You’ll be back,” in a tantalizing purr.

Isabel Grey is a Colorado resident. She is currently receiving her MFA in Genre Fiction and Poetry at Western Colorado University. Her work has contributed to The Chamber Magazine, WordCrafter Press, Ample Remains, and The Gay & Lesbian Review.