“Equinox” by Jennifer Judge

In late summer, restless boys
make pipe bombs from match heads.
The rain has stopped coming.
No one mows their lawn.
A gray-green ache blows 
through the neighborhood.
The neighbor looks for a button
she lost two summers ago.

At night the crickets are so loud
I sleep with my hands over my ears.
We are past the church bazaars, 
headed for the strong coppery days
and still, the cold does not come.
My uncles sit in plastic chairs,
their teeth in plastic cups.

Every afternoon feels like a Sunday night.
We feel that music of ending with our
whole bodies, the glow of that last bright light.

Jennifer Judge is a poet whose work has appeared in Literary Mama, Blueline, Under the Gum Tree, and Rhino, among others. She teaches creative writing at King’s College in Wilkes-Barre and earned her MFA from Goddard College. Her first book, Spoons, Knives, Checkbooks, is due out from Propertius Press in summer 2021. Learn more at jenniferjudgepoet.com.