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"Aubade for Distance" by Lisa Compo


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.




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