Michelle Brittan Rosado – Poem in the Form of a Seating Chart for an Airbus A380

Michelle Brittan Rosado

Editor’s note: This poem is best viewed on the full width of a desktop or laptop screen.

Poem in the Form of a Seating Chart for an Airbus A380

When the takeoff      is over and the city of San Francisco      doesn’t slide off 
the tilting side of      the earth and all becomes still water     for hours 
and hours I am      back next to the aisle in wonder      at elbows 
and the sound      of our metal buckles opening      and clasping shut 
again and the beep      before the captain speaking      nothing 
I understand      and the curves of ice in the concentrated      orange 
juice flattening      against my tongue and the tailored      batik uniforms
of the flight      attendants and the intimations      of whispered 
dialects and      the deep white noise of the engines      spinning 
a cocoon      around us and the funnel of air conditioning      from above 
my head      like an extraction from the clouds and the part      of me leaving 
or arriving     all my life never quite there always      anticipating waiting 
the concept      of family on the other side      of the earth 
with my ears full      of cotton and no one can quite hear      anyone but we are 
together and loneliness      feels like a chamber we can break      open into new air

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 – After

Steven Sanchez

Editor’s note: This poem is best viewed on the full width of a desktop or laptop screen.

After

I ride my bicycle

                                              and

then a paramedic asks me my name.

                                              Steven.

She asks me the year.
                                              2016.
                                                            It isn’t. I blame
                                                            the presidential election,

                                                            as if my mind wants to erase
                                                                         the white house,

                                                            this crash,
                                                                                         everything

                                                            that’s happened
                                                                                                      this past year— 

                                                                                           you who left me
                                                           after eight years, 

                                                                            after I cheated
                                                           with a man who would kiss me

                                                                                        in public.

The emergency room doctor says
I may have a brain bleed,
              a concussion,
                               a broken nose
                                              or jaw.

                                                           They dab 

                                                                                                      my brow

                                                                              with gauze

                                                           to stop

                                                                                                      the salt

                                                                              that stings

                                                           my eyes

They ask me how I fell.

                                          I only remember how you woke up
                                          from each seizure and would ask

                                                                                                      What time is it?

Psychosomatic

                                          the doctors later told you,
                                          caused by stress after

                                                           eight years of
                                                                                                      sleeping in
                                                           a bed
                                                                                                      with our two dogs
                                                           between us 
                                                                                                      where our hands
                                                           unfolded,
                                                                                                      had once touched.
                                                           I found
                                                                                                      te amo
                                                           mi amor,
                                                                                                      —that engraved
                                                           tungsten
                                                                                                      halo seemed like it fit
                                                           around my finger. 
                                                                                                      You pawned it
                                                           eventually,
                                                                                                      after
                                                           I found
                                                                                                      you collapsed,
                                                           Tux and
                                                                                                      Teddy licking
                                                           your mouth,
                                                                                                      your lips pursed and
                                                           rigid.
                                                                                                      Without thinking
                                                           I shouted
                                                                                                      Babe
                                                           and turned you,
                                                                                                      I laid by your side
                                                           and held you,
                                                                                                      as if I was
                                                           still your partner,
                                                                                                      cooing 
                                                           wake up,
                                                                                                      wake up, Babe,
                                                           you have to
                                                                                                      leave for work.
                                                           Eventually, you did.

I was pedaling my bicycle

                                          and

you texted me
I don’t feel so well

                                          and

                                                           I sped to your apartment,
                                                           each curb corner
                                                                                           a nightstand,
                                                           each traffic light
                                                                                           a door knob,
                                                           each speed bump
                                                                                           a person not waking,

                                                                          knowing

                                                           If I got home in time,
                                                                          I couldn’t hold you
                                                                                      too tightly—

                                                                                                    I might harm you more.

I ride my bicycle
                                          and
                                                           lose

myself. Consciousness,
                                                           I hope,
               slips
                                          before death
                              like our last kiss
when your lips
                                          bloomed
               into another man. 

Michelle Brittan Rosado – Childhood Bedroom Window, 1980s

Michelle Brittan Rosado

Childhood Bedroom Window, 1980s

in Daly City I look each night 
for the symmetrical arrangement 
of red lights in the distance 
that someone had told me 

was the Sutro Tower
in San Francisco, the first 
of several cities I would pine for 
from the outside. Some nights, 

the pinpoints disappear behind a layer 
of fog from the bay, and others 
they show so brightly 
like the forgotten pegs in my Lite Brite 

glowing at the end of the room, 
it is almost like I could lift the black 
construction paper
at the corner of the sky 

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 – Left Anterior Fascicular Block

Steven Sanchez

Left Anterior Fascicular Block

Scar tissue paves my heart
                                              in rumble strips
  like the 99. Southbound
                                              from San Francisco,
k-rails cinch three lanes 
                                              into two 
                                                            into one,
a miles-long corset
                             meant to protect
construction workers 
                                            while they erect pylons
for a high speed rail 
                             on the verge
                                                          of abandonment. 
Scuff marks streak 
                             against the concrete walls
 and I find myself
                            staring, 
                                             wondering
how a car survives,
                             imagining how 
                                            my door’s mirror
                                                           would shatter
and I’d wake up 
              with my face 
                            steeped in glass.

Target fixation—
                            if you stare long enough,
the body always moves toward its gaze,
               and maybe that’s why
                              I never make eye contact
in a mirror,
                              though I did stare 
              at the reflection 
                                         of you 
                             and I
                                         holding hands 
               on the bus
in the Castro—
                            one of the few times we did
in public. 
                            A man approached us,
said he lost the love of his life
               in the 80’s 
                                              when America refused to look 
at thousands
                of Queers 
                            dying. In the window, 
our hands held
                            an entire city. 
I never asked
                            Why are you so afraid?

                                                            Electricity
makes a detour
                             in my heart,
                                                 now.
After we ended,
                            you kissed a man
just outside a restaurant window
                                                           and told me

I felt bad because I kept wishing it was you.

Once, 
               I saw green glass sparkle
on the side of the road—
                                                          no—
it was a bird’s corpse, 
               chest hollowed,
                             a mound of flies gleaming.