My body turns into a bellows at
night. Out flows toxic stuff, I sit and wait
for it to end, the air is thin, floor’s wet,
the lampshade upended. I hold my breath.
Finally the spasm ceases. I cling,
light green, to porcelain rims, fluorescent light,
the orangish odor of disinfectant.
A citrus fruit is on the lid, smiling,
that bastard fruit, fat lines for limbs, orange skin.
I wait for the attack to come. But it
doesn’t. My guts feel glorious nothing.
I wash my hands. I dry them on my shirt.
Some hand-cupped water to the face, less green.
The worst is over now, I think. I say
to the orange: sorry I called you “bastard.”