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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