Fernandez

Poetry

Lindsey Johnson

When I was younger

I would sneak into my parent’s room

while my Dad was at his night job.

I’d stuff myself into his

still-warm, vacant place in the bed.

And when he’d come home:

Go back to work Dada!

His mint-green Fender sat in the corner

next to his side of the bed,

and most days collected dust.

But that Stratocaster I revered,

& requested my own.

(Sparkly, Purple.) (Thanks, Santa.)

He refused to teach me to play

on the principle that you can only

learn if you teach yourself.

While inquiring years later

about a guitar to borrow for a

strangely-tuned song in a gig,

I asked about the Fender.

He said:

That? That was a Fernandez.

A Mexican copy-cat of the brand

I attributed it to.

And the color was oxidized from

a bright-white

To the mint I knew.

He also told me he owned

a tarantula?

That it was originally his brother’s.

I do not ask about my uncle,

although I wear his army jacket—

the stolen valor displaying

my last name. And I can still see

the remnants of the holes

in my dad’s ears & nose.

My mother told me his

ex-girlfriend did it.

Now I watch him get older—

hand-in-hand with my mother—

and I know better than to ask

for that guitar.