Your Camel


Tomatoes and cucumbers overcome by mint —
green beans hanging from gutters —
circles around eyes
weepy with moonlight.

We sit on your porch, gliding
on the glider,
drunk on tea and gin.

More tea steeps —
steeps in mugs and cups, saucers and jelly jars —
steeps in the dining room and kitchen —
steeps in the bathroom, bedroom,
living room, basement.

Each swallow provokes
the stubble blotching your Adam’s apple.

Tremors or faltering
eyes?

Gin?

Moonlight and stars.
Polyps on your nose —
dried blood at the bend of your jaw —
a Band Aid behind an ear —
drooping lobes — drooping lids
which veil your eyes which aimed
your fist, so long ago,
to beat the two I know only as,
That whore of a wife and bastard son.

The punk of a Camel goes dark
and falls
to all the other ash
that fills your lap