Michaela's Musings

  Wake Up Call  I awoke to the gentle hum of the HVAC, Swaddling me in a cocoon of warmth. Outside, the wind howled, Rattling the window. Desperate to enter. A chill ran up my legs, Weighed down with a foreign heaviness. Sandpaper scales scraping against soft flesh. I peeked under the cashmere bedding, A frigid lump of fear formed at what I saw. Spirals of dusty earth Patterned with black diamonds Coiled comfortably around my feet. Slitted pupils staring off into an abyss I could not see. Maybe it was cold too. Searching for its own soft place. XOXO, Michaela

Hello everyone! This is my article from the spring edition of The Drum: Black Love! I'm so incredibly proud of this piece and very grateful for The Drum community for giving me a space to be a vulnerable. Hope you enjoy. Here's the link:  The Drum Spring '26 The Art of Loving "Anyone with a heart would agree. It's so easy to fall in love with me" - "So Easy (To Fall in Love)" by Olivia Dean What is love?   It’s the honeyed scent of mango wafting through the air. It’s the cool sensation of your great-great grandmother’s well-worn sapphire rings and gold pendants against your skin.  Our society limits this powerful, transcendent emotion to the narrow space between two people.  But it’s more than a feeling; it’s a state of being.  Much of my childhood was spent in solitude. Sitting alone at lunchtime. Attempts to play at recess were rebuffed. My body became a target for mockery. I thought my lack of relationships was proof that there was nothing to love...

*This is from a class discussion post O nline tradwives are not a new phenomenon. In fact, they derive from a long history of white women upholding white patriarchy through the promotion and adherence to traditional gender roles. While the alt right is characterized by its aggression and "masculine" dominance, women's role in it has been to soften it, make it seem palatable to the masses. From female slaveowners to the United Daughters of the Confederacy to the Reich Bride Schools, white women have utilized their unique position to perpetuate systems of white supremacy. Their unique position—while limiting due to their gender—still allows them to exercise considerable power as white persons. These movements depend on the presumption that women are inherently softer. This lures people into the ideology, assuming that the presence of women makes these ideologies harmless or even aspirational. The emergence of tradwives on the internet is ignorant at best, and dangerous at w...

Note: This poem was part of an assignment for my poetry class. It's inspired by and responds to a fellow classmate's poem. A Meditation on Love There is a widow,  Glossy and black. Crimson staining her delicate mouth. A callous predator Claiming her victim. But she loved him. Adored his tiny, tan frame And the smattering of freckles  Dancing across his back. Loved him so fiercely she Diced him into tiny cubes, Spooning him into her mouth. So that when their children are born, He is the first thing they know. And she, Swollen with the fruits of her love, Returns to her web. XOXO, Michaela

  All Apples Rot Here is the house, Four hundred years in the making. Built with bleached bones and Black blood. Slicked with centuries of sweat. Burn marks etched into the hardwood floor. Nothing more American than apple pie. Gooey brown sugar and rancid flesh Served up to the highest bidder. Rot wriggles from beneath, As maggots eat away at the crust. We’re sent to eat in the kitchen When company comes. Dirty dishes pile high, Rank resentment wafts through the air. But we laugh. Nothing lasts forever. A teeny dent, A tiny crack in this mythical melting pot. XOXO, Michaela

Lapse I can’t remember her laugh.  Maybe it was deep and warm,  Laced with Old Texan charm.  But then again, There’s a lot I don’t remember. Moths feast on the last photos my mind saved, Taunting me with glimpses Of honey blonde curls and bronzed skin. What was her name again? There is a woman at the end of my bed. Cloaked in white, Hazel eyes mirroring mine. Shining with guilt or relief, I can’t say. She glides towards me, Light as a feather. Soft hands cup my face And I am seven years old again. XOXO, Michaela