Poetry: Abigail Welhouse’s “Unavailable”

1. The fantasy of being completely unavailable. A desert island, maybe, or the middle of the woods. In these fantasies, there are never insects and never sunburn.
2. The more you do, the more people ask you to do.
3. I dream of feeding my friends. They are seated around a large table. My own table is too small.
4. For now, I water basil on the windowsill. I don’t know what to do when it grows.
5. On the kitchen counter, an experiment grows mold. I make a video.
6. Finding a note I wrote to myself that says “skin care for end times.”
7. I am more permissive about not knowing where poetry is going.
8. I jump when I see I have a new email.
9. Turning my phone off makes me afraid.
10. Not turning my phone off makes me afraid.
11. I am afraid.
12. I am currently waiting for the phone to ring.
13. Who even talks on the phone anymore? I do. But don’t worry, I probably won’t call you unless you ask.
14. I am not available right now.

Abigail Welhouse is the author of Bad Baby (dancing girl press), Too Many Humans of New York (Bottlecap Press), and Memento Mori (a poem/comic collaboration with Evan Johnston). Her writing has previously been published in the Heavy Feather Review (Issue 2.2), The Toast, The Billfold, Ghost Ocean Magazine, Yes, Poetry, and elsewhere. Subscribe to her Secret Poems at tinyletter.com/welhouse.

Author photo cr. Gregory Crosby

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