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Poem-a-day

Every Person Is an Address, Every Person Is a Calendar

Not everything is language, not everything is meaningful. 
Stein got this, too, with her whole digression on nouns. 
A steak can mean anything, are you thinking of a steak right now? 
Don’t. A steak is a carpet, a rope, a canteen meadow. A steak is a stake 
in a fat, black heart. People mistake a close encounter with death 
as a close encounter with God. They caress the edge and the edge  
stinks of holiness. I’ll never get over that we used to be children. 
Our inner lives gathering, gathering while angels disguise 
themselves as a kitchen sponge. Dear angel, I mutter! 
I address the rushing world. I make saints of soda cans and fly north  
in winter. Every person is an address the way every person is a calendar. 
You are a Wednesday afternoon on Rue Etienne Marcel. 
On the last day of May, a soccer game is won and fireworks burst 
in the streets. Young pigeons, in fright, flee a stone church in Belleville. 
Dill is chopped rough into a salad. I am reading about how every time  
we put a new gender into language, we prove the purity of the old ones.  
To oppose a regime is also to reify it as what governs you. I choose  
every day to get up and perform my antics. You are a one woman show, 
a dancing shade said to me at a bar in Brooklyn. I loved someone once
who took me outside language. Have you ever had that?  
It’s a drug. I was possessed with the lingering warmth of a flat puppet, 
recently animated. I said, take me seriously. I said, I can be who you want,  
I being a parakeet or another diminutive creature, squawking far  
from her equatorial home. How tropic. What tropic erotics. 
What I’m saying is there was a lot of language between me and my masters,  
between me and the house of mastery. We pummeled each other through  
the wormhole of signs, we tumbled the other through the tickle of time. 
Sometimes during sex, I see the alphabet smiling at me. 
The letters wear robes and hoods and encircle me like a gangbang  
of monks. They arrange and rearrange, taking their turns.  
I resist the urge to spell. 

Copyright © 2026 by Megan Fernandes. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 27, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.

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Megan Fernandes

Megan Fernandes
Photo credit: Sreshtha Sen
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About Poem-a-Day

Poem-a-Day is the original and only daily digital poetry series featuring over 250 new, previously unpublished poems by today’s talented poets each year. Hala Alyan is the Guest Editor for May. Read or listen to a Q&A with Alyan about her curatorial process, and learn more about the 2026 Guest Editors. Support Poem-a-Day.  

If you have any questions about Poem-a-Day, visit our Poem-a-Day FAQ.

Previous Poems

Title Author Date
After Lighght Tom Thompson 06/25/2014
Our Many Never Endings Courtney Queeney 06/23/2014
A Sense of Proportion William Stobb 06/23/2014
Lunch at a City Club Stephen Vincent Benét 06/22/2014
To America James Weldon Johnson 06/21/2014
Love in the Morning Annie Finch 06/20/2014
valentine for Sally Hemings Sojourner Ahebee 06/19/2014
With Passing Wonder I Notice the Tracks of an Animal David Biespiel 06/18/2014
Life’s Ironies Jane Miller 06/17/2014
What Are They Doing in the Next Room Bruce Smith 06/16/2014

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