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Michelle Brittan Rosado – Picture Window at the Beginning of Shutdown, March 2020

Michelle Brittan Rosado Picture Window at the Beginning of Shutdown, March 2020 the three-year-old follows with his eyes the garbage trucks traveling left to right hauling the last of our moving boxes and the mail carrier’s white van idling across the street and the construction crew on schedule to peel back the street down to its striations of rock and concreteContinue reading “Michelle Brittan Rosado – Picture Window at the Beginning of Shutdown, March 2020”

Steven Sanchez – Pinwheel

Steven Sanchez Pinwheel My dog stops to smellthe silver pinwheela little girl plantedin the flowerbedby the staircasethat connectsmy apartmentto three others.It’s become Tux’s favoriteflower, its foldedplastic petals spinning,sunlight glintingon his wet black nose.He never marks his territoryhere, never raises his legto claim this as his,unlike the way he claimedmy foot the other weekwhen we hadContinue reading “Steven Sanchez – Pinwheel”

Michelle Brittan Rosado – Evening Walk, 2020

Michelle Brittan Rosado Evening Walk, 2020 The night gardener’s watering concentrates on the roses’ shadows. A coyote, starved by summer, lowers his head to the gutter. An invisible constellationof points measuring six feet extends from everything:the web spun from windowsill to banister, flickering under the porch light. Author’s note: The poems in this series all use the image of a window as theirContinue reading “Michelle Brittan Rosado – Evening Walk, 2020”

Steven Sanchez – Meet Me at the Gay Denny’s Part 3

Steven Sanchez Meet Me at the Gay Denny’s Part 3 14 years ago, after a trip to a haunted house and hay ride, I came out to my closest friends in a Denny’s because I was in my first relationship and wanted to share that part of my life with them. We were sitting atContinue reading “Steven Sanchez – Meet Me at the Gay Denny’s Part 3”

Michelle Brittan Rosado – Every Window Filled with Trees

Michelle Brittan Rosado Every Window Filled with Trees I climb the wooden staircase to the backhouse built above the garages and I’m here at the level of the treetops thinking of Dickinson’s line about the gambrels of the sky and then remember my ancestors walked up carved logs to longhouses on stilts to outlast the floods—and isn’t it always this way, some memory deep in my bloodline at the same time as an intimation of the western canon,myContinue reading “Michelle Brittan Rosado – Every Window Filled with Trees“