I was wearing my banana-eating pants
with my apple-thieving shirt that day.
No one could tell me nothing: I thought
I’d be rolling in grapes forever. I had
a little hat I’d made out of a blood
orange peel—it sat on the back
of my head like a Valkyrie. I never
could tell where it all came from,
the fruit clothes and the gumption
to wear them. Maybe I was foolish,
burning myself out like so much
kirsch—how the clean, blue flames
wrap themselves in cherries jubilee.