a house across the river

watch me dig this moat, and complain it is too wide, too deep

watch me fall down the rabbit hole of this impossible desire – this man who is disappearing even as he comes into view

watch me focus on this schedule, these trivialities, these hospital corners, these ironed teatowels

watch me try to convince myself I can conquer my libido with this keyboard

watch me stay in bed, scripting sex scenes for imaginary selves with more confidence than I had even way back before the back and forth began – fucked, unfuckable, fucked, unfuckable, fucked

watch me calm myself with lists, and lists of the lists

watch me check the locks again

watch me tell myself I dunk the tea bag 100 times because my great-grandmother said that’s how you make a strong brew, and not because I believe it will encourage the universe to reshape itself around my wont

watch me wish I could tell this woman I am fine and she is fine and everything is fine and it will all go on and it will all pass and hermyourtheir implosion will not be the end of anything much

watch me build this fire and leave all the windows open –

how else stay cool? how else escape?

watch me choose the seat closest to the door

watch me push my back against the wall

watch me slamthisdoorstampthisfootswearscreamslapthisface

and so? I’ve watched more than one man put his fist through more than one wall

watch me shoulder this spade – watch me call it a shield

Chelsea Avard lives on unceded Kaurna land in Tarntanya (Adelaide, Australia). She co-edited the short fiction and poetry anthology The Body, holds a PhD in Creative Writing and her poetry, memoir and criticism has appeared in a number of online and print journals and anthologies. Her poem ‘How We Stay’ received the Verandah Literary Award. She is currently working on a collection of ekphrastic poetry.