Of the Evening
The cicadas have been quieted—
caught in the humidity
of an Alabama summer;
even they cannot
make use of an evening
no more fit for anything
than watching the night sky,
still as the way hours move.
The dogs lay out in the yard:
their bellies full from dinner,
their coats wet from wading
in the neighbor’s pond.
The grass, the only cool spot
to be found, becomes bedding
for the three of them,
and I suspect the neighbor’s boy
will be along soon.
Too hot for coffee, I sit
on the porch swing with a glass
of sweet tea and wait for nothing,
content for more of the same.
Grief wrapped around me last night,
reminding me of the hardest ache
I’ve learned to live with. I curled
into the bend of the couch, recalling
silly things and finding solace
in the way the night moves.
Loss has lent itself to our family
in the same season it visited last;
the evening makes the same sounds
as it did then: crickets and cicadas
in the distance, cars crawling past
our homes—as if life is to carry on
the way it always does.
Rachel Nix is a native of Northwest Alabama. She likes coffee in the morning and bourbon at night but rarely knows what time it is otherwise. Her work has most recently appeared in Words Dance, Melancholy Hyperbole, and Bop Dead City. Rachel is the poetry editor at cahoodaloodaling; more of her poetry can be found at: chasingthegrey.com