House

Emily Hoffman

1. The field


These were the images of well-being—

a threshed field opened

to the sky,

a small red throne room

with its empty red throne—

the brightness

of the field

making me squint

and in the throne room,

a diagonal stripe of light

on the velvet ground;

so the view

must have been through a crack

in the door—

so I was there

in the field,

outside the hushed room,

though not bewildered—


2. House


Think of the boarded-up shed—


who’s inside,

seeing the bars of light,


the flies and dust

changing places.


The field dry,

the shed pulsing slightly

with consciousness.

You march over

and tear the boards

off the window.


You weren’t wrong;

it is a little girl.


She’s got on faded orange

bathing suit bottoms.

On top, nothing,

her torso stretched

over the loom

of her ribs.


She’s just posed

on her side,

staring into the middle distance—


You cry out.

She retracts her arms;

she starts to cry.


From nowhere,

a woman enters.


The girl buries her head

in her mother’s shoulder.

They walk across the field

and the woman looks back at you,

shaking her head.

For God’s sake,

she was just playing.


Crickets in the dry grass.


Was it a shed

or a bedroom window?


She looked out at you.

You looked back at her.


And you are crying

and kissing her wet face

and saying again and again,

I would never, I would never—

Emily Hoffman is a writer and anthropologist. She is a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of Anthropology and the Institute for Comparative Literature and Society at Columbia University.
Originally published:
December 15, 2025

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