Michael Medeiros


Get me some sparkling Rosie he shouted

from the kitchen, no shirt on, overalls

one button unhooked, tan chest grey haired

chest looks down hands on the heavy cutting

board a slab board children born in that kitchen

maybe on that board.

The sparkling Rosie, he looks out the window through

the shit hung on the window glass birds, glass

Pierpoint opaque circles Christmas tree

mermaids, a Yorkshire terrier he never had

one as far as I know, so why one in glass?

 Out there outside the window through

the shit snow on the ground, the asphalt though

black he laid it, he poured it on hot and still,

hot enough to melt the snow in afternoon sun

the day after the storm.

We always drink the sparkling Rosie for the

celebration, whatever celebration, there’s

a bottle gathering dust for the occasion.

Whenever one goes a new one comes. This

time it’s a grandkid not born on a kitchen

table in a hospital in Texas maybe he’ll never

see but sparkling Rosie baptizes the situation.

All’s sparkling, snow, snowmelt, glass

bubbles in the bottle, sweeter than

Chardonnay, cheaper too.


Michael Medeiros is a writer and photographer living in Amherst. His work has appeared in the Naugatuck River Review and jubilat. He is the founder of the Amherst Poetry Festival, and organizer of the Emily Dickinson Poetry Open Mic.