E. F. Schraeder

I spent the last summer in a light blue t-shirt
with Chiquita smiling on the front
holding her basket proudly.

I didn’t feel blossomed, but turned
like bad fruit. Irritated that the undershirt
world abandoned me, stranded

with two small useless fabric cups
to cover what felt like an unseemly rash
I wanted to be rid of

and a fumbling clasp to quarrel with
like a nasty friend talking
behind my back.