Francis Fernandes
Release
It was so dry and windy back in April
I had to take a polishing cloth to my
Gibson Byrdland almost every day
like in that film where the world
has to live with the constant threat
of dust storms and families keep their
plates and bowls upside down
and sweep the dirt off the dining table
before every meal. That’s how it was,
the pollen-filled dust getting
into your clothes and books and sheet
music, it was enough to drive you
crazy. Plus the fact we were at home
the whole time, work being so scarce.
I tried not to worry, while the pink
and white blossoms blew through the
air, like snow. I heard Billie Holiday
sing the snow is snowing, the wind
is blowing and I remembered those
winters back home when the rumble
of snow-plough trucks would fill
my dreams and the next day I’d have
to shovel the snow off the driveway.
Snow is crystalline and all that,
as everyone knows, and so when
it melts it runs down the back
of your neck like cold silk, in a purifying
way—pure as Christmas. Like that
Christmas it rained and then
the sidewalks and streets froze over
making it well-nigh impossible to go
to church, but we did anyway: we
walked, holding on to each other to keep
our footing and then the priest joked
about it, Thanks for checking your skates—
and your sins—at the door…ha ha!
which I missed because just then
the Three Magi and the shepherds
broke out into a hockey scrimmage
game right before the altar, with
the ghosts of Rocket Richard and Gordie
Howe and the rest of them. All I could
think about in those days was hockey.
And now I hide from the news
and the germs by playing jazz covers
all day. It’s tough not being able to jam
with the guys: jamming is our bread
and butter, as John the bassist would
say. I told them I’m tired of these
strictures and just want to play in front
of a crowd again, see all those faces
and the joy unmasked. Hey, they expect
a storm the day after tomorrow, so
I’m hoping for one of those crazy
blizzards that will blow and freeze
away this bloody virus, wash it clean
off the streets and walkways and window
ledges and off our cloistered minds. And
you know who I want to hear—I want
to hear Billie Holiday sing the snow
is snowing, the wind is blowing, and
when she does I’ll improvise something
like that feeling you get when ice melts
down the back of your neck, and my
bandmates will stop their playing, look
at me in surprise, and wonder where
that one came from.
—Submitted on 12/11/2020
Francis Fernandes‘s poems have appeared in The Zodiac Review, Amethyst Review, Beyond Words, Third Wednesday, Montréal Writes, and other journals. Having grown up in the US and Canada, he lives in Frankfurt, where he writes and teaches.
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