Poetry by Elizabeth Stanfield
Corner lot, just beyond the tattered awnings and
Cigarette butt sulking in the deepest dip of the curb.
Tail of smoking still curling off of the tip.
Sarah, who the smirking clerk believes to be my lover.
Man, who smoked. I cough when he walks past.
Barstools, the vinyl covering crackling
like ice cubes in rose lemonade.
Girls, me and Sarah.
Chapstick-coated red-pinstriped straws.
Iced coffees with matching condensation rings
on the pavement.
Muffin wrappers flattened beneath the heel.
Tires that need attention.
Bends in the highway we take home.
Times I cry when Sarah leaves. Indiana is
so far from here, couldn’t you fall
in love one state closer?
More months, and another set of
About the Poet
Elizabeth is an eighteen-year-old emerging writer from central Wisconsin. Her works are heavily influenced by her Midwestern upbringing and early modern British literature. When she isn’t writing, she can be found reading Julio Cortázar, watching Premier League soccer or persecuting the Oxford comma. She has work forthcoming in Canvas Literary Journal.