Elizabeth Sanger

As I whip off my shirt, you steady the wheel. All of your ex-boyfriends have turned into pillars of ash.

The sun bounces in bright, laughing sheets from your breasts. Your hair is a wildfire spread by the wind. We are just passing through.

The vodka claws its way into the pink of my throat. I pass you the bottle. “Fire it up, girl,” you say, breath like diesel fumes, and so I do, press the gas pedal all the way down to the floor, feel the heating beating churn of the engine work its song between my legs.

When we pass, towers of glass and steel shatter into a million pieces, pound a fierce rain down to the ground. Fields of summer wheat bow deep before us. The arc of the sky is an endless blue smile.

Vodka pearls on your lips. My hand is a hunter stalking your thigh.

“Speak, and it shall be transformed,” you say. And so I do. Angelfish. Buddha. Coliseum, demon, dolphin. Egg, elephant, emperor, emu, fakir, feather, ferris wheel, fiddlehead, firecracker, forsythia, garden, geyser, ghost, gingerbread, giraffe, girl, good ship rolling all night on the strange dreams of the sea.

Here. I. Joust with jaguars. Kill all the kings. Leap over the law. Oh sister, now we’re getting somewhere.

Eventually somebody will want to know what happened, but they’ll never catch up with us. They won’t even know how to begin looking.

We’ve changed our own names.


“I am a 24 year-old native of upstate New York. I come from a long, illustrious line of sky-diving maple syrup producers (seriously). We make the best damn maple syrup in the world, and all of our important decisions come to us as we’re jumping out of the sky.” E-mail: libsang[at]