September 23, 2021 by The Citron Review
Out here in our beloved Western city, it was a hard year to grow anything. Our apartment’s patio was hopeful in the spring. All the claypots were planted on time. We watered regularly. The sun shot fire from the sky. Tomatoes wilted. Zucchinis dropped their neon blossoms. Bees grew afraid of the yellowjackets. Some green onions poked up and looked around. Our landlords raised our rent by 56%. The green onions tried to crawl back into the soil. We couldn’t. We ate them quickly and planned our move out of town. Do we have room for all the empty pots? Hhhhhh. Do I still have onion breath?
A bright spot in all this pungent tumult leads me to celebrate a different harvest. I am certain that our Fall 2021 micros are among our most delicious. It’s sensory overload!
Sudha Balagopal instructs us to use our nose, while Kevin Grauke celebrates the scent of smoke in the right circumstance. He also challenges us (via a famous cinematic moment) when we don’t look away from fear. Hannah Feustle’s kumquats must be eaten, but there may be a consequence. Andrew Stancek shows us a way of listening to rocks, while Eric Mohrman evokes a unified song in obsidian space. Listening to your speakers in the car has its own importance for Magda Phili, while Susan Yim buys time after hearing a huge question about feelings. Juno Elio Avillez do Nascimento’s piece won’t let us forget a feeling and its power. Aditi Ramaswamy remembers powerfully uncomfortable feelings caused by movement. Kimm Brockett Stammen dances us through life’s distortions.
This bumper crop of tiny delights is a testament to the loving care of each author who has found a way to connect even in these incredibly hard times, not by feeling less, but by feeling more with every sense available.
In case you’re wondering, those few onions from our patio this year were really breath-stinking good. Maybe we’ll grow more than onions next year in a new place. We’ll certainly try. And I look forward to reading all of the micros you send our way, wherever we call hhhhhome.
The Citron Review