A Passenger’s Library

By Anaís Fernández

An exploration of ghostly subway rides during the COVID-19 pandemic.

the faces on this train used to tell stories 

good stories
stories like the ones passed down from our mothers
stories that feel like 
speeding through space or
maybe through a darkened subway tunnel

the faces on this train used to tell stories

with all the figurative language my English teacher
could ask for

I could find similes in their smiles
metaphors in their mouths
imagery right behind their eyes and
always irony
tucked into the corners of their lips 

the faces on this train used to tell stories

sad stories

stories of cold nights and not enough to wear
stories that sound like clinking coins in cups
stories printed in black-and-white, flipped through
and left behind for the next person

loud stories
stories of boombox bass and beat and beat-up baseball caps
stories that start with it’s showtime, folks
and read like limber limbs around steel poles

the seats on this train used to tell stories

stories of lost things —
of umbrellas and MetroCards,
mittens and hats,
they say that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure and
I imagine if all the lost things on the subway were turned into illustrations,
they would create the most beautiful picture book.

sticker stories
graffiti graphics
call me written in red and a phone number
ads and ads and ads and 

the bodies on this train used to tell stories

in the summer they would shine
and in the winter they would disappear
only to come out again too early 
forgetting the snow always has the best April Fools’ Day trick up its sleeve.

the subway was my favorite library
no overdue policy
and the shelves were always stocked but never the same

I treated the threshold between the platform and train car floor like
a steel-bound front cover
and when the man tells me to stand clear of the closing doors 
it sounds like a dedication.

the faces on this train 

are few now
covered and concealed
by a cloth veil

I know that behind the mask
there is still a story 
but for now
all the titles are the same:

keep breathing. 

Process

This piece started as a quick scribble on my first subway ride since the COVID-19 lockdown. Like most New Yorkers, taking the subway was a constant for me, and I had come to treat my daily commutes like some sort of intimate interaction with the city. My return to a mostly empty subway car was a little jarring, and it felt like I had lost something. This piece is my reconciliation with that loss.

Performance