Night Sweats | Molly Sturdevant
A spoon scrapes a plate in my house, the oak in the floor a hundred years old a thousand planks and penny nails. Is this man made of rock who forgets to kiss on a bus I made a list of how my house sounds. Quiet – that’s the sound of his glass being emptied. Hiss – the expressway slithers. Silver – streetlamps slice my kitchen when I cannot sleep. I fascinate on the faucet – a long diamond. Ghost – it knows about the attic, the carpenter’s marks for apparent stairs, a doorknob lodged in the basement’s mortar. Summer is a flood, it takes out the washer, the water softener, it creeps at the cabinets and shelves. Normal is a sump pump and stink of mold. Debt is how we got here. A knife clinks the sink or am I too warm to sleep. Is high ground a place I can crawl to. How the night looks – vast.
About the Author:
Molly Sturdevant’s prose and poetry have appeared in Orion Magazine, The Dark Mountain Project, Crab Creek Review, Poetry Northwest, About Place Journal, and many other places. She is recognized as a WFM Union Scholar, and taught early modern philosophy for a decade before becoming a full-time writer and editor. She recently completed her first novel, which focuses on women in labor history, and is seeking representation.