This morning, this evening—all twilight—
the pinks, grays, amorphous twilights

merged by hers and hers, both bright
and newly minted, clouds of twilight

hovering in rooms after days of heat.
If it hums—the fridge, the fan—still twilight

falls earlier in increments. Here the height
of summer becomes a gauge. Age comes sleight

of hand, preoccupied by equinoctial light.
Two girls seven, their babbling gone: oh twilight.

*Originally published in The Ghazal Page.

Judith Skillman’s work has appeared in Shenandoah, Poetry, Zyzzyva, FIELD, Prairie Schooner, The Southern Review, and elsewhere. Awards include an Eric Mathieu King Fund grant from the Academy of American Poets. Her collection Kafka’s Shadows is forthcoming from Deerbrook Editions in 2017. Skillman has done collaborative translations from French, Portuguese, and Macedonian. Visit www.judithskillman.com.