Poetry by Carla Sameth

                      whatcanyouseenow! ghosts and stuff CC

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​LA Stories: Urban Mountain Lion, South African Transplant

for Milo

You didn’t want to come here. Los Angeles took you. Down to the basement, near Parker
Center and the Deja Vu Strip Club, next to the new marijuana mall. Where tourists take
photos and buy souvenirs while freshly tatted dazzling dispensary girls sell them strains
with names like “Flying Monkey” and “Ganja Goddess.”

Cornered but wild, like P-56 the four-year-old mountain lion. Not killed, you are trapped,
tagged and set free to roam, not quite feral, uncertain of your role. So you maul the sheep
and eat the llamas. Grow grey-skinned from being locked away in the dark dank
basement. Dream of safe savannahs and freedom and foraging that won’t get you
stunned. Or killed.

Like the coyotes that saunter brazenly, morning, noon and night, across Pasadena lawns,
you roam, restless, discontent, wondering where the hunger will lead.

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Bruised Arms

Purple, gold, red and yellow.
Blue too, where the elbow bends,
the space where eczema grew.
When you were six,

your teacher said you caused 
yourself to itch. Mrs. Ovens 
was her name and some teachers tied
kids to chairs and taped

mouths shut. The screeching rip
could have been Kenny Wade’s lip
or a scream from him or a classmate.
When I was 36, my arm covered with needle marks,

tightening bands to pop out veins, unseen
by squinting eyes, tapping arm.
I scream ouch use the butterfly,
reserved for little children’s hard to find veins.

Blood mixed, ingested, taken 
and given. Medical voodoo transfusions
prescribed. Pooled blood, red blood cells.
Bully bruised arms, all in search to bring a baby to life.

Alternative ending: Veins collapsed, worn out, rejected. 
Began with once, then a hundred times, later turned 
into forever chasing highs, floating into sky, 
leaving earthly bruised collage.



                                

Dreaming Sobriety

I’m like Dorothy flushed with joy, awakening, surrounded by Aunty Em and the lot.
Yes, and you and you were there I tell my older sister and my son, Raphael. All three
of us looking for a rehab where we could check in together. Dancing down
the rambling road to recovery.

At the first place they interview Rafa while my sister and I wait droopy, long hours 
vanquishing determination. I grab a staff person rushing officiously by and demand:
“Tell me the truth, it’s not our first rodeo, why the long wait? Did you just fire
someone?” You see it’s looking mighty empty. A snarky smell, piss yellow walls.
Lone poster of empty beach.

“Yup, honestly Ma’am, the place is fallin’ apart, best keep looking.” We scratch our
heads, wonder who will take all three of us, And the money? Not looking for equine
therapy or sober surfing, but still, we are a package deal and recovery doesn't come cheap
or “three for the price of one.” Feel the weight of inevitable failure. Awash with dingy
sweat, butts sink, stuck to chairs.

“How about Beit T’Shuvah?” my question pops out like a perky jack-in-the-box. 
The Jewish recovery synagogue with the Rappin’ Rabbi and the soulful choir led
by the lovely soprano who my son’s friend is smitten with; he’s mad about any girl
that can sing or speak a foreign language. They don’t turn anyone away there for lack
of shekels. Then I realize, shit, it’s Friday night, can’t check in on Shabbat. 

We begin to fade – greenish sickly cast – when our oddly un-demented mom, Rafa’s
grandma, pipes up, (Yes, she’s there too. And you. And you.) “Who says, there’s no
money?” Then she goes dark again, her words vanish like a dust devil
​sliding into the horizon.

“Well now I just feel like having a drink,” to my older sister.
“Go ahead, no one would blame ya” she pats me on the knee.

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Carla Sameth’s debut memoir, One Day on the Gold Line, was published July 2019. Her work on blended/unblended, queer, biracial and single parenting appears in a variety of literary journals and anthologies including: Collateral Journal, Anti-heroin Chic, The Nervous Breakdown, Brevity Blog, Brain, Child & Brain Teen Magazine, Narratively, Longreads, Mutha Magazine, Full Grown People, Angels Flight Literary West, Tikkun, Entropy, Pasadena Weekly, Unlikely Stories Mark V, and La Bloga. Carla’s essay, “If This Is So, Why Am I?” was selected as a notable for the 2019 Best American Essays.

​She writes about addiction, trauma and resilience with a sense of humor and connection to her readers. 
Carla is a member of the Pasadena Rose Poets, a 2019 Pride Poet with the City of West Hollywood, and was a PEN in The Community Teaching Artist, She teaches creative writing at the Los Angeles Writing Project, with Southern New Hampshire University, and to incarcerated youth. Carla has an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte (Latin America). She lives in Pasadena with her wife

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