"Black Girl in a Snowstorm," A Poetry Post

Before there were black parties or white parties or
Black or White Parties or
Tea Parties,
there was a Black girl in a
snowstorm and
she was the
All Black Everything.

She was your momma
walking a block over to the
bus stop,
falling off the curb into a
snow drift
on her way to a
minimum wage
long day.

She was your sister
sweating in goose down
with too many heavy books
pulling her center of gravity
into the pavement buried
under waist high powder.

She was covered in snow
before there were crackheads or
cokeheads or
pushers,
snuggling up next to a
warm-blooded
workhorse of a man who
helped her believe that
living under a leaking tin roof could
be okay.

She hacked down the Christmas tree
with a hatchet and
drug it in,
even when there was nothing
to go under.

She made
crock pot chili
for the boys
so they could
bear the cold.

Now, where is your All Black Everything?

She refuses to cook.

She refuses to
get her hands dirty.

She believes that
walking
is beneath her.

She refuses to
pick up a
book
for
any
reason.

She refuses to
stand by a
wilting man
when he
needs her
most.

She don't want to
work
at all.

She don't understand
snow,
that sometimes in life,
things will ice over,
and you will find yourself,
catching the bus,
or walking long blocks,
or sleeping unsteadily,
or living unsatisfactorily.

She don't know what
falling off the curb
can do to a
woman working
minimum wage.

She is
so
saddity.

We snowstorm women
must
remind her of her
hard won heritage and
saturate her in
ice water
before the snows
blow in.

If not,
she will die
in the streets.

-T. D. James-Moss