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LISA COMPO | Satellite Image: Processing

In the black ink of soil, we were

finally speaking that night. First,

I told you how to move. Why

do I do this? You lifted

tributary stars branched above us, so

that we might make room

for a dance where ice still

rested on the river even

though it was still July. Somehow

this far north we tend to stay

just as we were,

catching up each season, or time.

Or was this just so we could tell each

other how to pose, which elbow

to lift at what angle? We were

good at this– and if I take the frame

apart, pull the corner over, and add

a sticker or something that looks

intentional, forgive me, it is all

just to keep this moment for

myself, if only not to lose

what I was and how to keep track

of what I am. The stretchy

silence moves increment

by increment. We caught the brackish

bits of water silently swishing

between, the almost-saltiness of our hands

moving each other’s bone and joint,

all so we were pastoral, all so we were

flat and still, beautiful from a distance.


Lisa Compo has a BA in Creative Writing from Salisbury University and is a poetry reader for Quarterly West. She has poems forthcoming or recently published in journals such as: Rhino, Puerto del Sol, Crab Orchard Review, Cimarron Review, and elsewhere. She was a semi-finalist for the 2019 Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry


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