Francis Fernandes grew up in the US and Canada. He studied in Montréal and has a degree in Mathematics. Since spring 2020, his writing has appeared in over twenty literary journals, including Amethyst Review, Indolent Books, Third Wednesday, Montréal Writes, Underwood, Little Death Lit, Pace Magazine, Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, Defenestration Magazine, Saint Katherine Review, Front Porch Journal, and several others. He lives in Frankfurt, Germany, where he writes and teaches.
The sun is still summer hot – sort of – although her slant tells you all there is to know. I like to dwell on the good stuff, our history isn't that old. Not everyone agrees, but that's how it is. I wish I could look the other way, like I used to from the concern of my father's frown. He was never sure I would make it in this world: me who always missed cinch fly balls and forgot to tag up with less than two outs. These days you can't see the hills for all the smoke. One mustn't mistake the heat of the fire for the early dawn's mist, it isn't quite appropriate. Speaking of which, if you have to ask whether a system can be racist, then apparently you're not getting the point. Now, like me, you may not be a person of colour, nor exactly white, maybe just a bunch of anxious atoms jostling in between, but times they're out of joint and some lines they're hard to see, drawn by the spite in people's hearts, real people with bright coloured spoons and stocks stuck up their derrières. Or maybe not. Maybe they're just out of a job and fed up that the colour of void inside their wallets is getting short shrift, and a girl from Stockholm hailed as the Second Coming while someone's brother's being stoned for defending his job. I can't see how the year will close: it's like, everything is up for grabs and despoiling, and nothing worth toiling for anymore. As for us, what can I say? Still foolish enough to hang around September, watching the sun roam across the sky like a lazy pop up – smooth, sweet, and just left of center.