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Eventide, the End of June
Eventide, the end of June, a storm
sits high, turning the bloated air
dark blue and rippling it
with thunder.
It caws
like some tropical bird never seen
this side of the turnpike,
this side of the Morris-Essex line.
Dark blue, the sky, when it should be
yellow pink and doused with softest June light.
Dark blue and shot through
with warning.
We fidget and refold our bodies on the sticky kitchen chairs and
say
what we really feel. Ice crystals fall
from our mouths as the sky blinks on and off
like the neon sign at the pizzeria downtown.
Fur raised, we wait.
The sky lightens
to white and the clouds shout again and again with sheet
lightning but
not a drop falls. We would rake each other with our fingernails
but for the thickness of the air.
Long ago, Wendi Weill graduated from Tufts University, with
majors in English and French. She then received a J.D. and has
worked as an attorney and labor arbitrator for 25 years. She
never stopped writing poetry. She recently had poems published
in the anthologies Her Mark and Gathered on the Mountain.
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