A Home Is a Kite
Jessica Alexander
After Arturo Rodríguez’s Sin Título, from the series La Tempestad, 1998, oil on canvas
When the sky spat the landscape back, the woman crossing the grass could not remember why her swimsuit was swollen. Her face, strained as a lemon, clinging to a tree. She hurried home, but the house grew more distant. Somewhere nearby a boy was milking the sky with his kite, turning the earth white, lighting it at night. The clouds formed a bruise. The hill was a charnel mill. Its silos full of fingers and teeth. The ground spat a boy to the sky. Once August brought the stench of blossom, sleepy nights bulged with heat. The air carried the sound of water escaping and falling again. The weathervane skirted the grasses. A scythe clipped the afternoon and dusk filled the sky. Come back, said the house, I am not happy with myself. A home is a kite tossed to the sky. A boy is a bird blown over the horizon. All the homes grew too small to fit inside, and they tumbled down the hillside.