If you are a longtime reader of Citron, you might remember that last year I shared with you that as a little girl I shook my parents’ wedding arrangement of roses in a water-filled globe because I believed it might be able to show me things like the crystal ball of the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz. A little more than a month ago they celebrated their 50th anniversary, and I sent a replacement arrangement with a note that said only, “I promise not to shake this one.” 

Funny enough, I am writing this letter the night before going to see a shorter, multi-sensory screening of The Wizard of Oz at Sphere in Las Vegas on a screen plane of 160,000 square feet. The venue promises “high-velocity wind arrays, atmospheric fog, towering fire bursts, bubbles, and infrasound haptic seats.” For weeks I have thought about how much I long to experience, need to experience, the immersive magic that comes from boundless storytelling. The poetry in this issue, in a variety of ways, contains that kind of storytelling magic.  

Poetry opens with Clayre Benzadón’s vivid world-building and sense of urgency in “The World is Ending Without Lemons” and “Matchsticks.”  

Next, Daniel Brennan’s “Atrophy” addresses life and desire: but when /has desire ever been fair, when has the world, / all teeth like barbed wire, its bristled coat, that / junkyard dog, ever been fair to me, /.

“September Shadow” and “Decompression Stop” by Michelle Ortega bring us two poems for this season of acknowledging what was and what remains and how to move forward: remember the sound of your thunder-voice, let it be the center of your universe, the very first voice you hear, then ascend.

Wren Tuatha brings us contemplation through water in “What is a bridge when it doesn’t reach across?” followed by “Bergamot” with it’s unapologetic truth: At the right mouthable warmth, tea tides on my tongue, / so clover honey and bergamot can fuck. 

Claudia Excaret Santos’ micro poem in footnotes, “This relationship,” lands the form and leaves us with an unexpected and stunning final line. 

Love can be so weird in the best possible way. In “T.G.I.F. but I’m Afraid I Can’t Keep Our Nudes,” Jennifer R. Edwards tells her lover, I make it weird & out loud / above you again.“ 

Finally, our Fall poetry selections end with a timely reminder on finding beauty, “What Little Remains” by Kate Snider. This gorgeous two-sentence poem draws us in quickly with: So let me / tell you again, / while there / is still time / together.

The temperature is cooling to a second kind of spring here before the desert gives us a quick Fall that almost immediately shifts to Winter. I’ve spent the last week weeding the backyard by hand, pulling the things that hurt dog paws, making room for new seeds for the pollinators. It’s a mess of dirt, but tomorrow I will add more seeds of clover and various flowering ground covers. This spring when I let most of the grass die, I envisioned a backyard that looked a lot like a field of poppies. Sometimes we do what we can to make our own magic.

Angela M. Brommel 
Editor-in-Chief
Poetry Editor
The Citron Review