Michelle Brittan Rosado
Palmar Grasp Reflex I
My index finger against his palm
and the world inside it closes.
A flash of neurology. A game we play
in the early pastel months until the reflex
disappears. We separate instinct
from free will, the gray morning
from the idea of May in Los Angeles.
Life, for now, is without seasons—somewhere
between spring and summer, between
flowering and unbearable light
Author’s note: The poems in this series all use the image of a window as their starting point, some in the title itself and others more peripherally. I’ve been thinking of this symbol a lot lately — as a portal for wonder in childhood, an aperture to others’ lives during the pandemic, a view of the world outside after giving birth and spending those early days indoors. These poems may not have come into existence without the invitation to contribute to The Fresno 15, and I am endlessly grateful to the MFA program for my years there and the deep sense of community I’ve carried with me since graduating in 2011. Thank you for reading and for supporting the Larry Levis Memorial Scholarship.