Women's Music Festival - 1995

I was sure I knew Ferron, having

traversed her emotional interior

album after album. I knew each

breath, supposed every heartache

captured on plastic or tape –

something stationary, solid to study.

She was the headliner on Saturday.

As she played her sad guitar in her

suede jacket, she made it possible

for a Canadian lesbian like me to thrive.

After the concert, she was signing CDs,

I went to meet her with my girlfriend.

Dry mouthed, my top lip got stuck

above my teeth, I couldn’t talk –

so, my girlfriend told her we were

fans, thanked her for her set.

I asked for a photo with her,

she begrudgingly agreed.

When I got the picture developed,

I looked lost, unhinged, my top lip

still stuck. Ferron looked pissed,

like I was a pain in the ass.

She didn’t know me at all, and her

music never sounded the same.