by Sara Aranda
Shift a House—Tilt Your Head
When the house clicks with an invisible snap in the wood—when the window is bright enough to squint through—when thunder immediately follows like a crumbling mountain top—how you were lost, sitting and reading—the rain too timid to give warning—when the clouds trickle with static somewhere far enough away to not notice—when you turn your head to look at the roof, then to the window from which the thunder came—how your heart held its breath with alarm—when you remember, as a child, thunder never crept up like this—even the sun is still steeped in the glass—but it is the mountain that houses such invisible fervor—this sudden self-actualization—how the grassy hillsides of your youth only ever whispered—how skies rarely fell apart then—how lucky you are now to have earth and sky speak so sharply—how they nurture such waves of concussed sound—shift a house—tilt your head—the self-awareness bellowing intent into dream-state—a cupped chin in gentle reprimand—change is conflict and conflict is inevitable—so you flip your hair backwards and the roars are heard for miles.
