Wandering the house as a boy,
I find a Barbie doll on Darlene's dresser,
and Darlene isn't around.
Barbie's face gazes past me,
a durable happiness
in her world of dresses, tiny handbags
and permanent lipstick.
Legs are the most obvious things, long and stiff,
and down under high-heeled shoes,
dots of paint indicate toenails.
I figure out how to get the blouse off
(a snap in the back that's too large)
and now I regard the tits:
featureless, disappointing cones of plastic,
all secrets and evidence removed.
With damaged hope I take off the dress
and I'm dimly surprised to find panties,
but under these there is nothing--
a clean prosthetic appearance,
as prurient as a joint in the plumbing.
There's not even a crack in her pinkish-beige bottom.
My interest gains no traction
and slips off the hard plastic
years before Teflon was invented.
© 2014 Mark Giffin