Barbie, a doll that looks like me
and you.
One with thighs that swish
when she walks, and fat that sticks
to her hips like glue.
No make-believe cuties, eyebrows arched
just right. No tiny twiggy dolls, nipped
tucked, everything pulled tight.
Give us a plus-size Barbie, someone round
and warm. An ordinary female with a less
than perfect form.
We want her to look like us, with mismatched
outfits that are fraying. Somewhere between 39,
and a senior discount, hair slowly graying.
No need for another bronzed Barbie,
wind blown hair all over her head.
Just give us a big gal with cleavage,
one who has hot flashes and night sweats.
Put a stash of dark chocolates under
Big Barbie's queen-size bed.
(c)Ann Falcone Shalaski
published in Skipping Stones 2007
Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA
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