Michelle Brittan Rosado

Palmar Grasp Reflex I

My index finger against his palm 
and the world inside it closes.

A flash of neurology. A game we play
in the early pastel months until the reflex

disappears. We separate instinct 
from free will, the gray morning 

from the idea of May in Los Angeles. 
Life, for now, is without seasons—somewhere 

between spring and summer, between 
flowering and unbearable 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

Emergency Haiku

operating room:
no windows, just the round light
like the last mirror

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

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.