Heatwave
Fever breaks, sun slipping behind the peak,
earth’s brow sweating off a last bead of light.
Cool air is a spell compelling me from the
bed’s burning sheets to the balcony door where
the silhouettes of cafe chairs sit angled in
quiet communion and the dome of stars is
planetarium-bright; I can almost hear a voiceover
intoning, to the naked eye, Venus appears…
The neighbors have made a nightclub of
their garage, the yawning door letting loose their
raucous whoops, a drunken belt of Piano Man.
This is all we can ask of a heatwave, housebound
until moonrise, then these few hours respite folded
between the tight seam of blaze and black, the moon
a spotlight on the driveway’s stage as neighbors
emerge from the wings, mountains hulking
darkly now the houselights have dimmed, and
from the cheap seats, all the pine trees are waving.
Zoe Boyer was raised in Evanston, Illinois on the shore of Lake Michigan, and completed her MA in creative writing among the ponderosa pines in Prescott, Arizona. Her work has appeared in such publications as The New York Times, Poetry South, Kelp Journal, Plainsongs, RockPaperPoem, About Place, West Trade Review, and Little Patuxent Review, and has been nominated for Best of the Net.