We often fantasise about poverty:
we romanticise
our chances of survival. Compulsively,

at the border our problem
is the years, layering
up against us. We collect heavy

seconds from places we’ll never see.
I wore six months
down into one morning and you

refused to abandon me fully.
Clouds followed us
around.

             My spirit is uncomfortable;

I let the rain in. I go to bed hungry.
You text me drunk
and I lose track of our crisis.

In one hand I hold some space
that was stolen
from me; with the other I tear up

my garden. I set fire to an unhinged
door and say
I’m desperate for time. You

tell me coyness is a cruelty. You don’t
know cruel. Caught
between the future and your flesh

I deliver an evening where I could
keep you. The days
did not suit us at all. It rains

often where we are and we do not own
any umbrellas and we
are very careful with each other.

Laura Voivodeship writes erasure poetry and creative nonfiction while masquerading as a teacher in the Middle East. Her most recent work has been published in unstamatic, daCunha, and Rue Scribe, and is forthcoming from Kestrel Journal. She can be found posting amateur images and line edits on Instagram @lauravoivodeship