Lisa Compo

Monsoon Sun

Ghosts don’t like freckled girls, you’re peppered
The sky is so open, your lungs

want to suck up it’s empty. The old
backyard saguaro has always been 10 feet tall, I am

waiting for its first arm to grow–
it may be another 50 years. There

is a ghost in my backyard too, a man– he likes
to pace between two large stones, he is

sand-yellow, a scorpion left behind. I think
he’s waiting for the arms

too. Lightning touches the far-away, not
the here-now.
I like to watch it, the orange

electric that flickers there. I’d live
in distance, inside the thunder sound–

the toads rebirth
from the ground, their cacophony of clicks

reminds me of the here-now, and the rain
wetting dry smells

like dog and home– here,
I pick goat’s head from the carpet, and watch

the separated sky, the here-sun
and the far-away iron clouds.


Lisa Compo attends Salisbury University on the Eastern Shore of Maryland where she studies creative writing, works as a writing center consultant and is currently the poetry editor for the campus’ magazine, The Scarab. She has work forthcoming or recently published in journals such as: Bluestem, Natural Bridge and SLAB.