Mademoiselle

Heave upon your shoulder his basket of nectarines, wash
     and dress your toy feet in those soiled ballet flats.
Sit like a chilled glass,
And thumb your little sundries.
By the time I reach my mother’s house, the fruits will be rotten.

Aren’t you a wild little thing!
There’s a snake under this camisole.
Love, I don’t bite.
I nursed it on fruit juice, I weaned it to whiskey,

And how we rose to grace!
My idle American wrath,
My mother, my resolve,
They could eat you for breakfast.