Portrait of My Dad the Self-Taught Weatherman with Hammer Blackened Nails and Grito

His spit-tipped finger calculates
inches of pain. He screams
at the sun when Sapello bone

-dries. He knows wind might whip
our walls and the sky may bruise
to whorls of pink and orange. He reads

us promises off a teleprompter.
The forecast always comes late
at night. Above Chente’s hailing cry.