Andante Cantabile

by Francis Fernandes

A child peeled an orange,

lifting the delicate petals of white lace

and picking away most—but not all—

of those ghostly threads that cling

to the flesh, like reluctant ivy.

Then tossed it in the air.

Near midnight: I happened to be

on the other side of the city,

kicking up dust among the quiet fields and trees,

adrift in the sweet smell of freshly cut

and windrowed grass.

I thought the scattered hay was from a fairy tale,

a maiden’s hair lopped off and cast away

with a sorrow deep as a golden prayer bowl.

Then my eyes rose and caught the airborne

orange between two tower buildings,

as though lifted by an updraft

into a cosmic hush.

It came to me then:

I was looking at nothing other than the moon,

cratered, fibrous, exhilaratingly full.

Bach, for his part, was nowhere to be seen,

but the night suddenly filled

with the Sanctus from his Mass in B minor.

The music and this aching amber light—

angelic voices buoyed

by glowing trumpets and harps.

And far from a child I pictured,

it was actually you.

The smooth cello tones of your shoulder.

The dancing violins in your eyes.

And yes, your lovely graceful fingers,

digging into the zesty rind

as I sipped my morning coffee—

until all that remained

was the promise of a life.

A simple life, just you and me.

Shared. Round. Almost fabled.

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Francis Fernandes grew up in Montreal. Since spring 2020, his writing has appeared in over forty literary journals, including Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, Saint Katherine Review, Amethyst Review, Jerry Jazz Musician, and The Orchards Poetry Review. He lives in Frankfurt, Germany, where he writes and teaches.