National Poetry Month Day 2: Megan Fernandes

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Too Much Eliot

I only listen to Dinah, now. 
Also, Belafonte. Optimism plus
despair is the soup of our time.
No hope here. No sea. Some 
degraded trees and always
a map that wants to become
something else. I wouldn’t know
a border unless I hit an ocean.
I stand dumfounded when
earth’s lip meets the sea. 
There are songs I can’t listen 
to anymore. I say it’s because 
of the war. Or the plague. 
Easier to blame the world 
falling apart than to say it’s you. 
Only a rookie admits 
the source of pain. 
Instead, I age. I fade.
No frontiers or bridges, here. 
Just endless Aprils.

 

 

Sonnet for Julia in March 2020

I get shirtless in my courtyard and nobody minds.
Breasts in the wind like hound dogs, nipples as their 
flopping tongues. In this brick and concrete city, 
I dream of rolling green and ancient slabs of rock 
through which one can travel through time. Basically, 
the plot of that softcore show, Outlander, 
where the woman is a healer and bigamist. 
The places I miss are the places I’ve never been: Beirut,
Scotland, the South China Sea. What is the word in physics 
when events co-occur? Months ago, I joked with 
a mammogram tech who said, gently, moving me 
into the cold machine: Tell me if this hurts. But it didn’t 
or apparently my tits like abuse. We laughed. Her name 
was Julia. And outside, the city wasn’t doing well.

 

 

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Author photo courtesy of author


Megan Fernandes is the author of Good Boys (Tin House 2020). She lives in NYC. More from this author →