The Letter She Tried to Compose in Mirabeau Hospital by Shoshauna Shy

Did you choose my window
because I was less likely
to have anyone in my bed,
an assumption lassoed
from watching me walk home
maybe twice toting one grocery
bag, one armful of books?
Did you determine at the bus
stop on 75th that I was the type
who wouldn’t call the cops
once you escaped, at least
not right away? Was the beige
curtain some kind of giveaway?
My bedroom tidy as a nun’s closet

your reassurance; the radio tuned
to string orchestras confirmation
no gun waited under my pillow.
My neighbor’s adjacent window
lifted wider than mine, her hair
the color of California grasses in July –

and yet did you decide to trade the heft
of her D-cup breasts for my teacups,
certain a woman with her platinum strut
would whip anchormen into a frenzy,
that detectives would race to take
her case, jockey overtime
to crack it?



Shoshauna Shy turns to poetry to live moments more than once. She likes spending time with books, trees, cats, chocolate and her husband, preferably all at the same time.