The bru in you is brutal:

manic storms, guttural winds,

deluges of ice and harm,

dingy snow that lingers

long past white. It’s not

lost on me that you

are an upgrade—a month

instead of “Negro History

Week,”—but the struggle

is realer on snow days,

my Caribbean blood

angry at sub-zero wind chills

and merciless montages

from arctic regions.

I propose we swap February

for June—after all, Juneteenth

needs the publicity, and we can’t

all escape to the Bahamas

the second month of the year.

You are too short and mean

to honor any people’s history,

and the fact that you make bills

due even faster makes me hate you

even more. So go home, February,

you’re drunk on raging drifts

and blizzard smackdowns.

Sit down until we tell you to get up.


Photo by Richard Walker