What I mean when I say I’m as domestic as breakfast

(After Eve L. Ewing’s What I mean When I Say I am Sharpening My Oyster Knife)

by Zora Satchell

Editor’s Note: This poem is best viewed on a desktop due to the form

  I mean I am a clementine

                                                                          What I mean is that I take up 

                                                                     A deceiving kind of space, I fit in your hand 

                                                                             I’m bright and I catch your eye

Like a pretty little warning 

                                                                   You’re afraid to take your nails  to my skin

                                                                     Your fantasy is to leave me unblemished 

                                                                     Yet  hesitantly you peel me away

                                                                      The citrus aroma lingers on your finger

                                                                      You’re not as careful as you should be

                                          My juice is sweet but it makes the

 paper cuts on your hands sting.

                                                                                                                                                

Steaming in your favorite mug

I am coffee

Black, deep, swirling bitter and mean

Rage to your taste buds 

Burning your throat

I know what it’s like 

to be consumed  Unaltered 

No sugar or half and half cream

What I mean is you’re addicted 

to the way I  keep you going. 

I know what it’s like to 

have your codependence

Your resentful need                

I mean that I am the plate of waffles

                                                On a sunday after church

          What I mean is I’m your reward for sitting

 patiently and hearing God’s word

                                                Perfectly golden brown

        Warm butter and crystals of brown sugar

                                                Syrup flooding the compartments        

                 What I mean is that Maple is sticky and  sweet 

            And makes you crave salvation only from me

   Isn’t that a delicious kind of blasphemy 

           What I mean is that you have dreamt of me

                                                Soft cake type of dough

                                                I’m homemade, 

                                                No leggo my eggo

                                                 No toaster pop

                                                I took my time being formed 

                                                You won’t regret me

Zora Satchell is a Black queer poet who writes about mental illness, family, and friendship. She believes that poetry creates space to explore and heal from trauma as well as  allow us to imagine new worlds. She is a member of the Estuary Collective and holds a degree in Ethnic Studies from Colorado State University. She is obsessed with movies and writes about film shorts for Drunk Monkeys Literary Magazine. She also serves as a reader for Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review and is the assistant editor of Kissing Dynamite Poetry.When she is not writing she is obsessively consuming pop culture. She loves good dance music and hanging out with her cat Bilbo. You can find her on twitter @thecasualrevolt where she lets her typos run wild.