Poetry By Susan Michele Coronel

      Till Borchers CC




They called me Redbone but I’d rather be Strawberry Shortcake


& they called me Communist but I’d rather be a 
yucca shrub, my petals boiled & eaten with lemon juice.

They called me category when I refused to be defined 
by the seasons  — not spring but sprung, not fall but fallen, 

not summer but surmounting stereotypes, not winter 
but winded from walking all night without a sweater. 

They called me security but none could be found 
when I was napping, only between my fingers 

as they lapped against a rainbow of blurred oil. 
They called me pastel & powder puff, 

but I was more powerful than soft cake. How I 
aspired to be Wonder Woman, golden lasso 

forcing captives to sift facts from a draught 
of lies manufactured by companies touting toxins, 

deceptive because sickly sweet. They called 
me daisy but I was more like burnt toast 

or shorn blades of grass swinging in a hammock. 
They named me broken, but I wasn’t born damaged. 

I only wished to be a sprout hemlocked by magenta spots, 
mauve & golden with a touch of ambergris.


The title of this poem was adapted from the title of Amy Sherald’s painting (2009), They Call Me Redbone but I’d Rather Be Strawberry Shortcake.





On Every Page 

I first became conscious of my mother
as a gust of wind, trips to the library
with pages flipped, her voice carrying
language on kites & tiny prayer flags,

stories spilled from dry lips. 
It was as if she mined the moon 
for milk but settled on a daughter’s hair 
that wanted similes & syllables 

for braids, ribbons woven from tales 
of strength to overcome. 
When I was born, I burrowed into songs 
that she whispered, made louder 

as I understood what they meant. 
Now my mother casts shadows 
on every page I turn, little flicks of ink 
rising, the movement of my pen 

on straight lines. She’s not the forest 
or river I need to keep warm but a voice 
veering, strange bell that fortresses 
against losses. I’m hammered 

on the anvil of time but carried 
by diaphanous diphthongs, consonants 
& vowels that nest in corners--
curved & crooked but anaphora blessed. 

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Susan Michele Coronel lives in New York City. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications including Spillway 29, TAB Journal, Streetcake, Gyroscope Review, Redivider, and One Art. She has received two Pushcart nominations. Her first full-length poetry manuscript was a finalist in Harbor Editions' 2021 Laureate Prize. 
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