Miss Revlon
(wide eyes and tiny pouty mouth
stubby body outsize head—
a glamour fetus)
was my doll
but in my class
a girl had
Barbie and
her Dream House
that was Barbara
who said she was
my friend
(was it because we both
were fat
and laughed at?)
her hair was
“dirty blonde”
and mine just
brown and dirty
(baths were
once a week—
my parents’ legacy
of life in tenements)
but “dirty blonde”
was close enough
to let her use the name
of “Barbie”
and turn my “Margaret”
into “Midge”
“come over to my house
we’ll play with Barbie”
she repeated
while I begged and begged
my parents
until my father
drove me there
her mother
who was also fat
served lunch
seemed very glad to see me
(was I the only girl
who’d ever visited?)
made conversation while
her daughter ate
in silence
then Barbara
led me upstairs to her
bedroom which
was vacuumed neat
and orderly
(unlike my home)
pink walls and
pink shag carpet
(we had no carpets—
linoleum only)
she pointed to the floor
for me to sit
while she sat on her bed
held up her Barbie
Barbie’s Dream House
Barbie’s wardrobe
dresses shoes accessories
little handbags hats
a hundred bits of stiffened cloth
and plastic
then dumped them
on the rug
she looked at me
with eyes as narrow cold
as Barbie’s
and told me
“PICK IT UP”
I wouldn’t
didn’t…
we went downstairs
her mother
offered me a Snickers bar
and talked
until my father’s car arrived
so could I say
that I had played with Barbie?
or was it just
that Barbie played with me?
I see
that doll today
I see
its placid painted features
masking hungers
its Dream House
a Pandora’s box
of nightmares
where girls played out
frustration
hatred
rage
Margaret D. Stetz is the Mae and Robert Carter Professor of Women's Studies at the University of Delaware, as well as a widely published poet.
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