Hold On

What it feels like to leave—snow within breath’s increment
exiting lips—forecasted          April ice. The equinox tradition of a cheese plate
edged with gold. The brie honey-dazzled.     I want you
to tell me         where to take my finitude.      Outside the neighbor’s hens chatter
with their feathers. The sun tears       across rain. The pool whirling.
My sunburn feels like the hand of God in the cool wind.      What does the hand
of God feel like? I ask you. You laugh,          tell me it feels like a broken
windshield—deer        still running. Necessary          omen. Right, the dawn
teasing 80mph. The sun          not rising. The drink barely spilled.
I make a home in my leaving. Here I am choosing which of the last
days to mold. The X’s I make in the calendar boxes not       a magic
as I’d hoped—diagnosis for iteration:                        the fears
of need—belief—checks        and marks       casting
a hex for yesterday’s own possible toxin.      I dreamed        we owned a tall white house.
Not a chimney but a spire. Not a church        but oval windows only a hair’s breadth
away from       sunlight’s nest. We live together. Call it        The Village House. A lake
wild in silvery fish. A warm towel crusted on the dock.        The hand of God stretched—
our freckles holding us by the chin.

Lisa Compo has poems forthcoming or recently published in journals such as: Colorado Review, EPOCH, Arts & Letters, Chicago Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. She is a PhD student in SUNY Binghamton’s creative writing program and obtained her MFA from UNC – Greensboro. She has received several nominations for the Pushcart award and Best of the Net. She is the social media manager for The Shore.