Hannah Kroonblawd

Slipping Past the Rowlock

My body already leaning towards October,
stalks of corn bending underfoot in the fields.

I once lived in a city where there was no winter,
only week after week of rain washing the concrete.

Time anchored itself beneath the surface of the harbor,
red fishing boats close enough I could swim out to them.

I’d cling to anything able to bring me farther out or closer in.
And now four seasons again, naming the months by their colors

on the ash tree. A few weeks ago, I locked myself out and had to climb
my own balcony. Is it possible to live alone without any concern? Knowing

how often I should mop the kitchen is not the same as filling the bucket, sweeping
up dust, and then—the steady back and forth of the handle, like an oar, across the tile.