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I Work at the Barbie Factory
Because my fingers were nimble,
because I had a penchant for the tiniest
plastic stiletto boots, I was head-hunted
by Mattel. I thought Ken and Skipper
would be here, but this place deals only
with the queen of them all, the one with
of-the-moment skirt. There are molds
for all her parts; wrists pop into place,
while the feet, calves, knees, and thighs
are all of a piece, snap into the hips
like a jazz aficionado blissing out
to Kind of Blue. The hardest part?
Painting those perky lips a subtle pink.
Each doll’s inspected. If not standing
on tiptoe, a buzzer is pushed,
and the forelady whisks her off
for rehabilitation. Don’t think I’m not
tempted to tamper with the molds, render
Barbie height/weight proportionate, not
39/18/33. Don’t think I get a kick
out of cutting out the fabric for her glam it up
heart-print dress, her on-trend blouse. I’ve tried
to rebel, to double the size of her waist,
to re-design her wrists into working appendages
that can actually lift, but the truth is I can’t afford
a pink slip. Be the change, I hear you saying,
which is all well and good, but sometimes
people get hurt, suffer in ways you can’t imagine,
though I do recall that broken-ribbed skeleton
of a female in the Mutter Museum, the result
of wearing a whale bone corset. I’m just obeying
protocol, insuring each face is genuine Silkstone,
each body sculpted and smooth. That each doll
arrives like a smiling corpse in its cellophane box.