Carlotta, Mist & Rain

The mist mills through a granite valley

in vaporous grey sheep colliding to stone,

the sky electrocuted into a cobalt plane

head high above Sierra peaks.

No, you should never hike alone.

Carlotta.

They must have sent an archangel

because this one in the dream was angry,

said he was going to make me eat my sins.

Then, he started shoving coal into my mouth,

which I just chomped on and swallowed

until his hands were black and empty.

I smiled.

“Didn’t your sins make you sick?” he asked.

“Man, I was raised on fear. Makes sin taste like vegetables.”

Carlotta.

Well, sir, I didn’t believe the morning sun

would take away the night, unless

my dark grove said so.

Carlotta.

Antidote for men

who believe in such a thing as choice,

her curves best presented on NASA telescopes

to take us back to where it all begins.

Carlotta.

The rain parachutes down in little strangers

to a city that doesn’t believe in climate.

A grey day in LA is a do-over,

clearly someone’s mistake,

or a steady pelting of reminders.

Carlotta.

She grabbed a bag of charcoal

at the carniceria to cook up the carne asada

for her father’s birthday. I hesitated.

“It won’t rain.”

Oh, Carlotta.