the Emergency Almanac text / art double issue...winter 2003 / summer 2004
Dream Obits for Liz
Dream Obits for Liz
Elizabeth, 18, died yesterday when her car went through the ice.
Elizabeth, Journey fan and good kisser, left the world with the radio on, which is something, we suppose.
Elizabeth left no one worth mentioning behind. Viewing and visitation, an abbreviation for our love and dot dot dot.
Elizabeth, 18, now gone numb, unsung, and eh.
Elizabeth, 18, from Eagle River or Agate Beach. Someplace with shine, not Misery Bay or the cold lake with the Dredge.
Elizabeth, 18, whom you could never be sure of.
Elizabeth, 18, clammy hands, a renunciation, an echo from a mix tape in a car.
Elizabeth went through like a lark would go through stained glass or anything like that.
Elizabeth went through of her own volition.
Elizabeth whose keys weren't found in the ignition, weren't found at all.
Elizabeth not made like the rest of us.
Elizabeth not made for this.
Elizabeth made-up and unmade.
Elizabeth the former burnout, who kept cigarettes romantic in her bra.
Elizabeth whose name was cut in paint on bathroom doors.
Elizabeth whose curls of smoke echoed her passing through the halls, her hand-print fading on a locker.
Elizabeth cast in the dullest role.
Elizabeth, unreprised in future sequels.
Elizabeth found in scraps.
Elizabeth, 18, not the first to leave our class for ice and foreign lands, but the first one that I miss like this.
Elizabeth a scrap of longitude and tongue.
Elizabeth, a sort-of Icarus.
Elizabeth gone myth.
Elizabeth: dyed roots and bottlecap.
Elizabeth now made of ash.
Elizabeth my new Cousteau.
Elizabeth my subterranean.
Elizabeth the heart of math.
Elizabeth the only answer to this equation.
Elizabeth: causal, casual, casualty.
Elizabeth, suddenly astonished at her predicament.
Elizabeth cast in glass.
Elizabeth my term my definition.
Elizabeth my itch and inch and ink.
Elizabeth my etc.
Elizabeth just etc.