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
