LOOKING FOR ELIZABETH

I'm underneath the table
thinking of Elizabeth
my knees pressed into the carpet
fingers rifling through slips of paper
hidden in between the pages of old address books
she is a girl, Elizabeth
I once knew, though not very well.

her red hair and freckles stick in my memory
she was the kind of girl
who kept Christmas lights up all year
pierced naval, tattoo on her ankle
she lived in a bright bungalow
across the street from a park
she made us lunch one time
we hung around for hours that afternoon
sat on pillows on the hardwood floor
because she had no furniture-hadn't for years

we walked to a surplus store on the main drag
our friend bought green combat pants
she and I tried on hats and laughed when our hair
stuck out underneath the brim, covering our ears
sat on the curb outside the art store where she worked
the soles of our shoes pressing broken glass into the street
I watched her bring a cigarette up to her red lips
white smoke drifting out of her nostrils

She moved up north with a boyfriend
he has since left, I'm told
I try to look her up
searching for a number of one of her old housemates
who might know how to reach her
underneath the table, piles of loose papers
there is nothing
I search between the sofa cushions
there is only spare change, cigarette butts, and bobby pins

By Gretchen Gize


Return to Previous Page

Return to Main Menu