To Bananas


They defame you who say we go bananas
when monkeying around.  It’s not fool’s gold
that rises in us as yellow does in you.
It’s 14 karat that can’t be banked and must
be spent as you must be eaten now
or go to mush by noon.  Who has time
to bake you into bread, anyway?
Donovan sang the ‘60s “Mellow Yellow”
and everyone baked your peel in ovens
hoping to find that starry celestial dynamo
in their dilated eyes and for once I said no.
I like you with milk and Wheaties, reading
the pictured sports hero’s life story
that always includes a wholesome breakfast
not to mention twelve-hour training days.
I like to watch a beautiful woman peel
and eat you slowly, with conviction,
though in public I have to break you
into little pieces that aren’t so phallic.
You’ve loads of potassium, which helps
in cases of Giardia, the bug I cupped up 
from a Rockies stream.  My diet:  you,
white rice, water – so pure it seemed to
wash away as well my indiscretions.
What’s sweet but problematic is how
delicate you are.  Always bruised by lunch,
you can forget about suitcase or airplane!
Wounded as you, cheerleaders, bah,
they never noticed but once and thus
see “indiscretions” above, thank you.
I miss Chickita banana girl who raised me
as a boy.  No, it wasn’t you in my pocket
but her I was happy to see.  Today I bought
a wooden prop with polished hook for you
to ripen on.  My friend Tomas claims
in America we never get your tastiest cousins,
exotic ones, though I’ve hung in a tree like you
and fallen too, but never into anyone’s arms.

From American Ghost Roses, University of Illinois Press, 2005.