Angelique Zobitz
Yaya Visits Me for Morning Tea
Noise and comfort dance
like motes in a sunny window.
It is surreal, how my ghost mother
comes to visit. A lemon slice
in her hand, squeezing the sun itself.
I’ve learned to listen
for the faintest sounds--
the soft catch of a spoon
scraping the bottom of bone china--
so faint
that only those who’ve sat bedside
with a baby or the bedridden can hear it.
Stir. Stir. Stir.
Each motion a spell.
Spoon such a faint chime
it flirts with not being.
An echo so faint
it must be acknowledged.
A whisper into the near silence
where only we half-exist.
Some mornings feel like mourning.
Noise and comfort dance
like motes in a sunny window.
It is surreal, how my ghost mother
comes to visit. A lemon slice
in her hand, squeezing the sun itself.
I’ve learned to listen
for the faintest sounds--
the soft catch of a spoon
scraping the bottom of bone china--
so faint
that only those who’ve sat bedside
with a baby or the bedridden can hear it.
Stir. Stir. Stir.
Each motion a spell.
Spoon such a faint chime
it flirts with not being.
An echo so faint
it must be acknowledged.
A whisper into the near silence
where only we half-exist.
Some mornings feel like mourning.
Yaya Teaches Me about Rock & Roll
Mama’s favorite color was Black.
My earliest memory is her: black hair,
Black skin, black clothes, black eyes
kohled deep and Black heeled boots.
Her hair was a prayer cut too short
to catch and hold.
She was never a saint or a martyr.
Child of heaven and hell,
she lived beyond the veil.
Youth her yell and she was wild.
Like night. Like liquor poured itself.
Like Joker’s in a hand of spades - wild.
Like addiction, sweat, and drug relapse.
Wild like what she’d seen.
Wild and beautiful like heaven’s
plantings forgotten and left to seed,
by the devil.
Wild.
Like the sickle stitched battle scar
in the cliff of her left cheek.
She made widows of those who
didn’t know their place or watch
their feet.
In her presence, I saw mean men fall straight.
My mama was as sharp as the stiletto
in her jacket lining and as feral as a scream
torn from a throat full of suffering.
Damn did she sing.
Mama’s favorite color was Black.
My earliest memory is her: black hair,
Black skin, black clothes, black eyes
kohled deep and Black heeled boots.
Her hair was a prayer cut too short
to catch and hold.
She was never a saint or a martyr.
Child of heaven and hell,
she lived beyond the veil.
Youth her yell and she was wild.
Like night. Like liquor poured itself.
Like Joker’s in a hand of spades - wild.
Like addiction, sweat, and drug relapse.
Wild like what she’d seen.
Wild and beautiful like heaven’s
plantings forgotten and left to seed,
by the devil.
Wild.
Like the sickle stitched battle scar
in the cliff of her left cheek.
She made widows of those who
didn’t know their place or watch
their feet.
In her presence, I saw mean men fall straight.
My mama was as sharp as the stiletto
in her jacket lining and as feral as a scream
torn from a throat full of suffering.
Damn did she sing.
Yeast Is Supposed to Rise
I don’t believe in overthinking. That’s a lie.
I analyze everything. Slice the moment open,
dissect it like a frog, guts spilling over the margins.
I haven’t yet learned how to turn my brain off,
which makes me a nightmare before parties.
I enjoy lurking in corners with the foliage--
snake plants, alocasia, give me a fiddle leaf and gin.
I tuck myself behind them like a well-kept secret.
Folks assume when you’re pretty, you love the spotlight,
want the scrutiny that comes with being seen.
They assume wrong. It’s camouflage, a trick of the light.
I’ve fucked up yet another loaf of bread
by overkneading. Pressed too hard,
stretched too thin. Yeast is supposed to rise,
but my hands don’t know when to quit,
like with love, like with forgiveness.
So the dough stays dense.
Like the way I replay a conversation
two years after it happened,
rolling it in my hands wanting an apology
we never have the chance to give.
I’m not particularly highbrow,
a good dirty romance novel and weed,
and I can get myself there.
I have spent hours underlining
the filthiest parts of well-respected literature.
Once read Anna Karenina just to see
if the sex was worth dying for.
Turns out, it wasn’t.
And isn’t that the thing?
I turn everything into a dissertation,
even my own pleasure. Overthink my way
out of satisfaction, turn longing into a
science experiment, love into a syllogism.
Somewhere in another timeline,
there’s a version of me that just exists.
She doesn’t analyze the shape of her happiness
before she swallows it. I imagine
she bakes perfect bread.
I hope she chokes on it.
I don’t believe in overthinking. That’s a lie.
I analyze everything. Slice the moment open,
dissect it like a frog, guts spilling over the margins.
I haven’t yet learned how to turn my brain off,
which makes me a nightmare before parties.
I enjoy lurking in corners with the foliage--
snake plants, alocasia, give me a fiddle leaf and gin.
I tuck myself behind them like a well-kept secret.
Folks assume when you’re pretty, you love the spotlight,
want the scrutiny that comes with being seen.
They assume wrong. It’s camouflage, a trick of the light.
I’ve fucked up yet another loaf of bread
by overkneading. Pressed too hard,
stretched too thin. Yeast is supposed to rise,
but my hands don’t know when to quit,
like with love, like with forgiveness.
So the dough stays dense.
Like the way I replay a conversation
two years after it happened,
rolling it in my hands wanting an apology
we never have the chance to give.
I’m not particularly highbrow,
a good dirty romance novel and weed,
and I can get myself there.
I have spent hours underlining
the filthiest parts of well-respected literature.
Once read Anna Karenina just to see
if the sex was worth dying for.
Turns out, it wasn’t.
And isn’t that the thing?
I turn everything into a dissertation,
even my own pleasure. Overthink my way
out of satisfaction, turn longing into a
science experiment, love into a syllogism.
Somewhere in another timeline,
there’s a version of me that just exists.
She doesn’t analyze the shape of her happiness
before she swallows it. I imagine
she bakes perfect bread.
I hope she chokes on it.
--
Angelique Zobitz (she/her/hers) is the author of Seraphim from CavanKerry Press and the chapbooks Burn Down Your House from Milk & Cake Press and Love Letters to The Revolution from American Poetry Journal. Her work appears in The Journal, Sugar House Review, Obsidian: Literature & Arts of the African Diaspora, and many others.
Angelique Zobitz (she/her/hers) is the author of Seraphim from CavanKerry Press and the chapbooks Burn Down Your House from Milk & Cake Press and Love Letters to The Revolution from American Poetry Journal. Her work appears in The Journal, Sugar House Review, Obsidian: Literature & Arts of the African Diaspora, and many others.