Michelle Brittan Rosado

Second Child Abecedarian

Again: this is how it
Begins. What to say to the wordless?
Count: one, two, three. Clouds, blocks,
Drops of rain.
Everything is 
Finite. I
Go on numbering 
How many days, weeks, months
I have held him outside my body. 
Keeping the score,
List of possible
Misfortunes we
Negotiated 
Out of to get here. One:
Pulling myself out of the wrecked car, no
Quickening under my skin. 
Remain, remains—
Such a slight
Toss of a coin. They turned the screen of the
Ultrasound away from me, 
Viability a word I listened for as they
Whispered in the windowless 
Exam room, while I said
Yes to whatever might happen next—
Zero or zenith—then rapid heart. 

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. 

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. 

Michelle Brittan Rosado

Postpartum Ars Poetica II: Leave

watery reflections in profile—mother, 
infant, stroller—appear & disappear
walking alongside the windowed

storefronts at the mall—interrupted 
by plaster & columns—like dreaming
then waking—these intervals to measure

the days & nights—apparitions—we cross 
stripes in the floor made by 
skylights—once shadow—a flash of 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. 

Michelle Brittan Rosado

Postpartum Ars Poetica I: Room

My privacy as small 
as a strawberry 
seed. I pick my life 

from between 
my teeth. I say,
shh, shh. And I recite 

this poem in my head 
11 times before 
I’ll get to write it. I want 

to be outside. Shh. 
I can 
only see narrow 

columns of the purpling 
sunset through 
the vertical blinds. 

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. 

Michelle Brittan Rosado

Palmar Grasp Reflex II

—a tower of mirrors curving 
toward childhood. No one told me 

the memories would come 
back. No one told me some memories 

would never return. An unending campaign
of feeling. Even what I can’t recall

is in this room now. His cry
before the limits of language. 

Our hands make patterns 
the ancestors recognize as their own.

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.