That September when the long heat made you whisper “I surrender” through your teeth for hours every night and all the corners of the house were tried for sleep crimes, each side arguing its own complaint—you were out of bed a dozen restless times; the air too still unless the fan was on, the fan a raucous buzz, thanks to the balance of the blade you mended hastily two years ago. Past midnight, past 1:20, past 2:55, you can’t help but see each dim-lit digit flicking past unslept-through. You get up, then down, up, down, a venture to the couch short-lived (the clammy skin says No to the cushion’s texture); the bed intolerable after several minutes spraddled prone and damp across the bottom sheet. Your place is small, and these rooms shrink with every passing hour. There is a small yard out the back door and it is cooler there, much cooler. You try the last lounge chair still outside, struggle to fix it semi-horizontal; recline about 10 minutes before sensing Creatures stealthy in the shadows—skunk? raccoon? opossum? In the suburb: certainly it might be one of these, but likeliest a neighbor’s cat. Waver, argue silently with apprehension, recognize the customary bugs at least have sensed your presence, retreat to the mock security indoors. After so much living in a dozen fascinating places, you have memories galore to keep you company, but they did not content you those September nights. What is the point of casting your mind back to other nights you hoped would never end (you loved them so) when you’re desperate for oblivion, even though infinite sleep creeps closer all the time.
Annie Stenzel’s poems appear in a wide range of print and online journals, from Ambit to Rat’s Ass Review, with stops at Blue Lyra, Catamaran Literary Reader, Eclectica, Kestrel, and Quiddity, inter alia. Her book-length collection, The First Home Air After Absence, is forthcoming later this year from Big Table Publishing Co. By day, she works at a law firm in San Francisco.