By Alexa Wilkerson

Gut it. Attach yourself to nothing. Prove yourself as an ascended being with no earthly passions. The tug of loss in your chest means nothing. Ignore it. These chambers pump more than blood. They need your gift of life.

Unzip yourself like a helicase, separating your strands of existence. Spill everything on the floor and get a mop. Your stomach sits at your feet like a beached jellyfish. Sprinkle some flour and pick up the doughy mass with ease. Alternate between sweeping and mopping until you and the room are properly field dressed.

Peel your forehead from the windowpane and spray the oil smudge that blurs the outside world. Feel shame for the messes humans leave behind. Your own shame rubs your pericardium raw. You needlessly spray more chemicals on the glass.

Dust softens the beam of natural light, like being underwater. When did you last come up for air? No point in it now. That’s your reptilian brain speaking, hung up on survival and primal feelings. The real remedy is in your rag and your copy of Keeping House for Your Loved Ones. Half the title is stained with merlot.

Tell someone you’re doing it, for accountability. Say into the phone, “I’m moving on like you told me to.” Your mother’s voice strains with age and pride in her own wisdom. “That’s good. See? I told you it will get better.” The words hang in your gut like an anchor where your stomach used to be. You recall the last time you saw her, counting the liver spots on her fingers.

Sit on the floor in the empty room. A woodpecker knocks on the windowsill, relentless. His head is the color of poppies. You search through your discarded guts for something to hold your impatience. Your intestines will do. Now, get back to it. Study the grime on the baseboards. Your next task. A broom slaps the outside of the window, jolting you to attention.

You rush outside and come face-to-face with your neighbor. His head is turned to the sky. Ask him what he’s doing to your newly clean windows. He regards you with blame in his eyes. “All day, all I hear is that stupid bird.” He works from home, he says. He needs quiet, he says.

Lower your brow. There’s a quote from Keeping House for Your Loved Ones that comes to you: “Host often. I swear, it just works. Host well and host often (see Chapter 10: Recipes for Gatherings). It’s a trick we do to ourselves to keep up with the cleaning. Extend your soul to the outside world and you will always feel fulfilled, and a home is the soul as much as it is the body. Not even speaking of tapping into our fear of judgement to put electric paddles to that pesky motivation…”

Enough. Summon your best HOA president impression. That’s it. Speak the law. It’s your property. It’s your right to protect it. You’ll call the authorities. Wave your arms like a lunatic. You’ve earned it. You both return to the inside of your homes with grumbles under your breath. A few minutes later, the woodpecker returns. You think he came when he smelled the spilled guts; worms and grub can’t be too far behind, deep within the bones of the house. He knocks, and knocks. Listen! Something in this home is living. His head is the color of warm capillaries.

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Alexa Wilkerson (she/her) is a queer writer and editor from Southern California. Her work can also be found in Flash Fiction Magazine. You can find her on BlueSky @alexawilkerson.bsky.social.