by Amy Schreibman Walter

I remember her legs spread wide in a perpetual split -
jazzy jumpsuit with no straps, slipping to
reveal a tanned, smooth Barbie bosom.

I brought Ken to her door every night.
I had him knock on the door of her Dream House, soft
no-knuckled man, holding a corsage, flowers, something.

I made them hug like they meant it, even when their arms couldn’t bend that way,
couldn’t reach around tiny hips.
I put him on top of her, created viscose static on the pink canopy bed.

I paired Barbie’s jumpsuit with little white heels for height,
a look I thought I might like to cultivate
when I grew up.

Amy Schreibman Walter is an American living in London, England, where she studies at the Faber Poetry Academy. Her work has been published in several online and in print literary magazines. Her website is www.amyschreibmanwalter.com.

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