Shift a House—Tilt Your Head

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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 the window from which the thunder came—when your heart holds its breath for this moment—when you remember, as a child, thunder never crept up like this—even the sun is still blinding—but it’s the mountains that house such invisible fervor—this sudden self-actualization—how grassy hillsides only whispered to you as a child—how the skies rarely fell apart then—how lucky you are now to have the earth and sky speak so sharply—how they send waves of concussed sounds—shift a house—tilt your head—like a parent bellowing intent into your dream-state—a reprimand for being so unaware of even yourself.

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