A space between the window and a pine
for the shadow-branch birds that have always
asked to be part sunrise to shiver,
hide. Where shade mosses, fraying
a sort of soundless: a glimmer bumps
and bobs between a swing brimming
with voice, coming to know moments before
the light is a talk of prayer. The birds
coo and whistle, rising— chanting. Arms goose-
bump, giving up on trying to stay sunken
into night— too many already a flutter, cracks
in lilac. Now, they speak
a type of breath and plume: numbing
sockless tile, silent
knobs, birdsong chest. The last
of us: still here, I am still here.
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.