Abby tells Liza — Summary

Abby tells Liza they must leave. They pack and run. Rain drizzles. Below the freeway Abby and Liza wander.

Liza must pee. Abby tells Liza GO BEHIND A TREE. No trees. A man watches. PERVERT! Abby throws

a rock. Misses. Liza sneaks behind a dead Frigidaire. Abby tells Liza she may throw her own rocks. Liza throws rocks at men. Men protest

but leave her alone. Liza and Abby catch wisps of sleep on the street below the freeway. Nick seeks and finds them. He pleads

COME HOME WITH ME. Abby slings a rock at Nick. Stunned, he falls. Abby runs. Liza, torn, fusses

over Nick. He tells her CHASE ABBY. Liza cannot find her in the night grey. Later Liza goes home with Nick.

Abby is lost. The street smells like piss. Traffic, soft, steady, roars. Shifty characters trade places in the shadows.

Show the whole poemHide the poem

Learn Poems app

Try the Learn Poems app

Everything from the website trainer, and more: new exercises, voice recording and sharing, reminders, quick review.

Abby and Liza flee from somewhere, and the poem follows them through one wet, uneasy night beneath a freeway. The poem never says who they are to each other or what they're running from, but Abby clearly leads: she gives orders, throws rocks, and decides when to move. Liza follows, until Abby lets her throw her own rocks, a small moment of growing independence. Then Nick arrives, begging them to come home. Abby knocks him down and vanishes, and Liza, torn, tends to him and eventually goes with him.

The last stanza shifts to Abby alone. The street smells of urine, traffic roars, and "shifty characters" move in the shadows. The flat, clipped sentences and the capitalized commands keep the tone tense and urgent. By the end, the mood is lonely and bleak. The poem doesn't judge anyone, but it leaves us with Abby's isolation and the sense that safety and freedom have pulled these two apart.

Read also

More by Pamela Hobart Carter

All poems
ContemplativePamela Hobart Carter

Lines of Sight are Reversible

Expect when facing mirrors glimpses at infinities, sureness of self, in this breathing state, instead, discover bowed lattices shuttering future or past or whatever
DreamyPamela Hobart Carter

Fried Egg on the Plate, Without the Plate

None of it makes sense or it all does, doesn’t matter, what matters is how we recognize Dali’s dangling egg, the yolk-sunny sky, and the odd shelf
CheerfulPamela Hobart Carter

Apology

I apologize for finding this dog to shadow you even as you pace the attic from desk to window, you and he, a pair now, contemplating those tough computer programming issues