Weather Sonnet #4

Anya Ventura

The sun feels more extravagant, the shorter the day. 
Hanging like a pendant off a rich womans neck. 
I get a haircut and scrub the stove, feeling unpeeled 
from the old terror. I dreamed my apartment 
was full of cats, hiding in rafters, in corners, 
on top of the refrigerator. The bulging attic threatened
to collapse. One birthed kittens, leaving
a milky trail of clouds on the plastic floor. 
In the mornings, the gold slouches in the hills,
and I pour myself out. 
In Carls film, the footage of his mother 
dead, pink covers pulled chin-close, the ellipses of face 
that he had rubbed away, what he kept calling
human human human.