Disillusioned

My mother was tender.
She held me when I was young
like she would never let go.
I was not prepared for a cruel world.

People sworn to protect
I must protect my sisters from.
People sworn to serve
want us to be their servants.

I was not ready for spilled blood
and broken blisters.
Sometimes I hear their screams
and do nothing.

I remember the laughter,
each gentle caress.
But I no longer believe
in the soft touch.

What is Art

“I’m not an artist,” she says, depreciatively,
but she does not understand the nature of art.
We breathe in the world’s paint and exhale
creations whether or not we wield a brush.
When the sun gleams through the window
casting golden rays upon the wooden floorboards,
does not something sparkle between the shadows
Bluebirds sing their morning song; a world will
always have music. When she spills her coffee,
she does not see the splattered image in the inconvenience.
When she cuts her leg, she does not appreciate
color contrasts of bright red against pale. In our
conversations, she does not hear the melody of her voice.
“You are an artist,” I say in response, pointing
to her winged eyeliner, her homemade cookies, the poem
she left sitting in a half-filled notebook on the desk.
“What is art?” She finally asks.
“It is not a painting or sculpture in a museum.
It is not a degree your parents told you not to get.
Art is everything. And nothing. It’s the strong scent
of pine after a summer rain. It’s a little kid’s excited smile.
It’s the flutter of a butterfly’s wings and an elderly couple
in love. It’s the heart skipping a beat and then breaking.
It’s someone’s final breath. But above all, my dear,
You are art.”

Fearfully and Wonderfully Made

In His own image He made us.
Dirt, and breath, and a part of His soul.
We grew and grew from Neanderthal.
But my reflection in the dirty glass doesn’t capture that.
Where are you, God, inside of me?

Like Job, I tear my garments,
mourning but the uselessness of my actions,
enduring the trials that leave trails of doubt.
But when I was born with red skin and black hair,
You said I was good.

You are the sacred blood that runs through my veins,
floating in my first gasp of air,
air that turns blood blue.
I feel you in the gentle breeze at sunset,
hear you in the beauty of a mourning dove’s call.

I am not as delicate as a dandelion
nor strong like the wasps building
their nest above my dusty window.
I am not the sweet melancholy
drenched in the notes of magpie’s tune.

Glimpsing in the surface of a puddle,
only imperfections peer back.
A cup of sorrow, a cup of suffering.
Stretch marks growth and tears the unspoken thoughts.
A quiet spirit of a life lived.

The longer I stare, though, something stirs in my soul
and I capture a glimpse of Solomon’s splendor—
placed tenderly in my heart.
Revelation upheld:
To know me, God, is to know you.

Micaela Michalk is an emerging writer from Ohio though she is currently studying in the UK. She has a BA in psychology from Malone University, where she also studied creative writing. Her previous poems published have been "Pas De Deux" in 30N, "The Hospital" in Compass, and "Holding the Universe Together" in The Scriblerus.