September 23, 2020 by The Citron Review
by Hannah Kroonblawd
the music room ceiling is first to catch fire citrus wood and ivory splitting in two if I cut my hands I can catch each yellow diamond falling from the hedgerow my mother taught me to paint my face with linseed oil to melt delicately so as to keep my skin from being scraped away after the music room then the cinnamon tree the olive grove the wheat fields my father told me that we mistook a star for the devil that God looks less like an angel and more like a man still when I lift the lantern I can see his carnelian wings the grass-green glow of foxfire in the undergrowth in the morning there is no place to go but into the river two coins under my tongue as if I will return to a different home to the portrait room that has yet to fade
Hannah Kroonblawd is a PhD candidate at Illinois State University, where she teaches in the English department and studies Anthropocene poetics. A graduate of the MFA program at Oregon State University, her poems can be found in Washington Square Review, Waters Deep: A Great Lakes Poetry Anthology, Puerto del Sol, and the Blue Earth Review, among others.