Michelle Brittan Rosado – Pastoral with Floor-to-Ceiling Window of a Metro Area Airport

Michelle Brittan Rosado

Pastoral with Floor-to-Ceiling Window of a Metro Area Airport

Approaching the glass that reveals 
what lies ahead as much as
my own reflected face growing unfamiliar
then familiar again, the men 
toss suitcases into the belly
of the plane while I look on, 
though in the dream—or is this
memory—I can’t remember
if I’m returning or leaving, if this is sunrise
or waning afternoon, and who
will receive me, who might also taste 
the salt of the peanuts on my tongue
from the last city, or what was the latest
assemblage of plans, like a horizon turning 
diagonal and reveals a sky 
filled either with stars or the appearance 
of starlessness, while I pack and unpack 
the few things I could take with me, rearranging
the temporary garments of this life.

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. 

Steven Sanchez – Vesuvius

Steven Sanchez

Vesuvius

I’ve already forgotten
how to kiss you, my tongue
always inside my mouth
even when yours slips
inside my lips, each muscle
of your tongue a word
I’m too afraid to say.
The earth trembles
and we’re used to it.
This fault line
has shaken our city
again and again.
The first tremor
broke a vase
and blackbirds flocked
to the sky, casting us
in shadow.  You held me,
promised we’d be okay.
And another, then another.
After years, this became normal,
the quake, my tremor,
your firm embrace,
and I didn’t want to admit
that I couldn’t see us
together for long,
didn’t want to unlearn
the width of your forearm
inside my hand, holding it
around my waist.
And again, another
group of tremors,
and again, your arm
around me, our naked
bodies coated in ash.
They’ll find our bodies,
my head against your chest,
and call us lovers.

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 concrete and pour new 
asphalt back over like a chalkboard 
wiped clean of words 

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. 

Steven Sanchez – Pinwheel

Steven Sanchez

Pinwheel

My dog stops to smell
the silver pinwheel
a little girl planted
in the flowerbed
by the staircase
that connects
my apartment
to three others.
It’s become Tux’s favorite
flower, its folded
plastic petals spinning,
sunlight glinting
on his wet black nose.
He never marks his territory
here, never raises his leg
to claim this as his,
unlike the way he claimed
my foot the other week
when we had visitors,
or the way he claimed
this apartment the night
we moved in.  This pinwheel
has been here for months,
bloomed in winter,
and fell down
after every storm. 
And neighbors always
fix it, strangers
I’ve never talked to:
the man on the second story
who works the nightshift,
his footsteps going up the stairs
each morning I feed my dog;
the little girl who lives
next door, who loves my dog
even though he chased her
into her living room once
when I forgot to shut the door
(she still tells her grandma
Look! That’s the dog. I want
to pet him, but he’s mean.);
the older couple who moved
in a few weeks ago
with Texas license plates,
they greeted me
in Spanish, reminding me
of everything I don’t know
how to say.  This winter
more men have been shot,
dark like me.  Police found
a man face down in a canal.
His death was ruled
an accidental drowning.
He was on his school’s
water polo team.
He kissed men.
My boyfriend’s morning
jog was interrupted—
he matched a suspect’s
description. This winter,
after class one morning,
my students waited to talk.
They asked if their votes
mattered.  Another said
she couldn’t vote.
Another said she’s
the only person
with citizenship
in her family.  Again,
I was reminded of everything
I don’t know how to say.
I love this pinwheel,
the way my dog stops
to sniff it every morning
and night, the way strangers
care for it—even a person
I’ve never seen before
stopped and reattached
the silver wheel to its stem
after the wind blew it off.
When kids bend down
and exhale their breath
into its silver ribbon,
I remember that sometimes,
we don’t have to say anything.

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 constellation
of 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 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.