by Lea Marshall

No Parking or Impeding Traffic Flow During Emergency
Richmond, VA

In one snow emergency, my cousins

and I tied trash bags around our legs

when we had no boots. In another,

I stayed in bed with a man for three

days, all the bread eaten, all the milk

drunk. Thirteen years later I carried

my girl at four months, wrapped

like a lamb through the stilled city,

our breath clouding the sparkling,

unfolding air. We sang a song for her

father. What constitutes a snow

emergency? Whiteness so sudden

and bright upon the forehead?

Excessive festooning of trees

and power lines? Instant darkening

of all evergreens? A woman once

discovered under a microscope

two identical snowflakes. There are

no snow emergencies, only human.

Her fingers cold, she shut her eyes

against their spidered gleaming.

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Lea Marshall’s poetry has recently appeared in A-Minor and Rise Up Review. She was named a finalist for the 2023 Graybeal-Gowen Prize for Virginia Poets, and for the Diode Editions 2023 Book Contest. Her work has appeared in failbetter, BOAAT Journal, Linebreak, Unsplendid, Hayden’s Ferry Review, B O D Y, Diode Poetry Journal, Thrush Poetry Journal, Broad Street Magazine, and elsewhere. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from Virginia Commonwealth University.