My mother smoked Camels,

the animal, not the cigarettes.

Men would slit the throat

and hang it from a palm tree

until it had been drained of blood,

had its stomach swept of entrails and organs.

She would gather wood, mostly cedar,

and brood a small fire

from which to cook.

She was the kindest and cruelest

person I ever knew, not realizing

the smooth clay surface between them

in a shattered cup.

As she swept up the pieces,

she would console the crying child.

No need to cry, my tifl. It was the camel’s time.