Ode to Suburban Mid-July

---

Abigail Alvarez

 

You kiss 

my sweat-saturated forehead, 

the place 

where the back of my hand 

meets 

sunburnt skin. 

As sweltering days 

melt into cool nights, 

I dream of you  

while cicadas buzz 

their soothing tune.  

 

Each morning you greet me 

with cherry 

popsicle-stained lips

and sickeningly 

sweet breath. 

I slip into 

worn-down flip-flops 

to chase you up

cracking 

chalk-covered sidewalks. 

 

The jingle 

of the ice cream truck

beckons me to dance 

in between sprinklers 

upon browning front yards.

We waltz 

among wilting dandelions 

spreading fuzzy white seeds 

like confetti  

over to the neighbor’s lawn. 

 

Each afternoon you embrace me, 

breathing 

down my back  

with a humidity so thick 

I forget to exhale. 

I peel sticky thighs 

from plastic lawn chairs, 

recalling the memories 

of kiddie pools 

and lemonade stands 

cling to my 

bug-bitten legs. 

 

Flies land and linger 

upon skinned knees  

to keep watch

over the children running 

after a stray ball 

rolling into the street. 

You gift them 

long days, 

stretching out 

the hours 

like an old pack of gum

left in a back pocket. 

Each night you whisper to me, 

careful not to speak 

over the choir of crickets 

that sings 

right below 

my bedroom window. 

Hand in hand, 

we chase fireflies, 

eagerly scooping them up 

to admire the way 

our palms pulsate 

with a bright yellow.  

 

Staring at the ink smeared sky, 

we pluck stars 

from above, 

one by one, 

collecting them 

into an 

empty Coke bottle. 

I sip and sip  

until they are all 

 

gone. 

 

---

Abigail Alvarez is a planning and public policy major graduating in 2025. She grew up in Edison, New Jersey, with her cat Violet. During her free time, she loves lingering in museums, going to concerts, and trying out new cafes.

Abigail wrote this poem in a course taught by Paul Blaney, who selected the piece for inclusion in WHR.