Undressing Barbie
I know her the minute I see her in the toy aisle.
We grew up together and she is just my age.
I haven’t seen her for years and I ask myself
“does she look better than I do?”
I glance in the mirror, knowing that time has faded
my bright outlines like a coke bottle worn down to
sea glass. Barbie’s waistline has not expanded; the light bulb
of her smile has not dimmed. Space warriors and rock stars
share the aisle but, Barbie remains suspended behind cellophane
like Snow White in her glass coffin. On second glance,
you could say her smile is a tiny bit
forced, like a waitress at the end of a long shift.
When the store closes, Barbie locks up the cash register,
turns off the fluorescent lights, pulls down the iron grate and goes
home to her small garden apartment
in a neighborhood that used to be quite nice; she kicks
off her high heels, looks in the mirror and wonders if botox
would be redundant for a woman with a plastic face.
She sighs as she loosens her tight waistband,
frees her hard working breasts from the wonder bra and throws
it across the faded chintz couch. Naked and old, she pours
herself a vodka tonic and lights a Virginia Slim, places the
drink on the bathtub rim,
bends her stiff legs and eases into the warm water. With a sigh,
Barbie leans back, closes her eyes, and tries to sink, but
her plastic breasts bob on the surface like balloons.
**
Published in Reflections, a Magazine of USM, Fall 2011
I know her the minute I see her in the toy aisle.
We grew up together and she is just my age.
I haven’t seen her for years and I ask myself
“does she look better than I do?”
I glance in the mirror, knowing that time has faded
my bright outlines like a coke bottle worn down to
sea glass. Barbie’s waistline has not expanded; the light bulb
of her smile has not dimmed. Space warriors and rock stars
share the aisle but, Barbie remains suspended behind cellophane
like Snow White in her glass coffin. On second glance,
you could say her smile is a tiny bit
forced, like a waitress at the end of a long shift.
When the store closes, Barbie locks up the cash register,
turns off the fluorescent lights, pulls down the iron grate and goes
home to her small garden apartment
in a neighborhood that used to be quite nice; she kicks
off her high heels, looks in the mirror and wonders if botox
would be redundant for a woman with a plastic face.
She sighs as she loosens her tight waistband,
frees her hard working breasts from the wonder bra and throws
it across the faded chintz couch. Naked and old, she pours
herself a vodka tonic and lights a Virginia Slim, places the
drink on the bathtub rim,
bends her stiff legs and eases into the warm water. With a sigh,
Barbie leans back, closes her eyes, and tries to sink, but
her plastic breasts bob on the surface like balloons.
**
Published in Reflections, a Magazine of USM, Fall 2011