April Love Letter

by Francis Fernandes

A fool’s brain fumbling for

order—like the old door frames

of Paris untouched by the war,

raising stoic eyebrows over

the comings and goings of today.

Or how about those ornate windows

looking in at sturdy antiques,

or gazing out at shimmering

rooftops and blessed skies; at sweaty

pilgrims running the marathon;

Jugendstil cast-iron drinking

fountains still flowing for the poor.

All caught, too, by my eavesdropping

lens, as I trod through the streets

early Sunday morning, and Latin

chants rose from a born-again

Notre-Dame full of palm fronds

and tourists praying for a better shot.

Along the boulevards, those Morris

Columns, black sentries wrapped

in movie stills—Cinéma vérité

of the truth—loomed over suspects

like me. I wandered quietly, then

sat on park benches. I ate a galette

de sarrasin with a salad and soft

goat’s cheese; washed it down with

a rosé. The whole time, of course,

I searched for you. In fact, that’s

all I did. Tonight, hunkered down

in my chambre d’hôtel, I remember

Saint Paul’s walking by faith,

not by sight. Yet my scribe’s hand

and sinner’s heart prove restless—

while the wind outside rattles

the window, raindrops scatter,

green branches whirl like dervishes

under a leaden sky.

---

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.