Michelle Brittan Rosado
Postpartum Ars Poetica III: Work
The flower shop marquee says, remember
your loved ones. A line appears
between my brows and stays there
the rest of my life. I tell all
my poems to Siri. Write a note. Add
more. She thinks the poem has ended
because a driver cut me off
and I stopped speaking. Three times
a week for an hour round-trip
I try to think of something
metaphorical. Most weeks
I can’t. Most weeks I’m thinking
or remembering and it’s recorded
nowhere except maybe the line
between my brows I keep checking
in the sunvisor mirror. I title each poem
poem so I don’t lose it in the Notes
app amongst the shopping lists
and the errands and the login
credentials. Siri thinks poem
is palm. It’s been so long
since I’ve said the word poem aloud maybe
I’ve forgotten how to pronounce it. At night
I nurse the baby and pull my finger down
the screen’s brightness like an eyelid
and insert all the line breaks, the phone
saying return return return.
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.
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