Why is February this way?
I wonder to no one,
to the memory of my mother,
my car pushing through low morning fog.
February could be a doorway.
Instead, it is a brick
fallen from nowhere,
there on the side of the road.
Hatch Marks on a Wall February
Cold Fingers Down My Throat February
February’s pages are full of names.
All the ones who found they couldn’t
hang on until the spring.
Just a quick release of hands.
Speaking of death –
February is my mother.
And my aunt, her sister.
February is frozen on the street.
February is flailing on the floor.
February is falling down the stairs,
and my father’s cries.
February is brief
the way a night terror is brief.
It comes and goes and
I am still laying here unable to move
A tumor tightly wrapped in thin skin,
is February.
There are no surprises in February.
February lies about love. Spins tales
about hope.
Here’s the truth of it.
February is me avoiding my reflection,
knowing my eyes hold the question:
can I continue and for how long?
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 6.
Samaa Abdurraqib lives in occupied Wabanaki territory, close to the ocean and the mountains. Recently, her poetry can be found in Enough! Poems of Resistance and Protest, Bigger Than Bravery: Black Resilience and Reclamation in a Time of Pandemic, Tiny Seeds Literary Journal, and in her self-published chapbook Each Day Is Like an Anchor (2020).See all items about Samaa Abdurraqib
