forget-me-not
she’s losing her mind
they say
as if it’s like mislaying an odd sock
or a favourite dress
careless
but it isn’t lost
just working differently
dismembered patterns
glittering sequences
fractured constellations
I’m still here, you know
forget-me-not
she’s losing her mind
they say
as if it’s like mislaying an odd sock
or a favourite dress
careless
but it isn’t lost
just working differently
dismembered patterns
glittering sequences
fractured constellations
I’m still here, you know
Limited Edition “Good Bones” Barbie
after Maggie Smith’s “Good Bones”
Life isn’t short when you’re plastic.
It takes a thousand years to decompose.
Mattel tells Barbie:
Think of all the delicious ways you’ll live,
collecting centuries like charms on a bracelet.
Mattel keeps the truth from Barbie:
For every Barbie that is loved,
kept safe, passed down
generation to generation,
there is a Barbie melted
on a stove top, decapitated
by an older brother,
mauled by the family dog,
or forgotten on a playground.
Like any business seeking profit,
Mattel says what is needed
to keep the Barbie smile,
smiling: You are famous,
a name more recognizable
than Cher, Oprah, Madonna.
Millions of little girls want to be you.
They’ll grow up to be women
who keep you on a shelf,
a shrine, a deity to worship.
Mattel never discloses—
even those people
sell Barbie on eBay
when the price is right.
Barbie’s Realization
after Margaret Atwood
You fit onto me
Like a shoe onto a foot
A mini pink stiletto heel
A gnawed right foot
content warning for HIV and discrimination
HIV Barbie
Barbie doesn’t understand why Cuba & Belize
require HIV testing for visitors staying
longer than 3 months. Her celebrity status
may not help her in Egypt,
non-nationals with HIV may be deported.
Aruba won’t grant work permits to anyone positive.
Barbie gripes to Ken:
Who wants to go to Cuba?
Belize! Well, what do they have to offer?
The pyramids aren’t all that,
and I can do a photo shoot on any damn beach!
Barbie can’t comprehend the fuss.
She doesn’t worry about bleeding cuts
or scrapes or sharing needles.
(Just say no to drugs, Barbie shrugs.)
She doesn’t even have blood
nor openings for necessity or pleasure.
No orifice means none—ask Ken,
that fact often makes him blue.
Her box comes with an information sheet
dispelling HIV transmission myths:
It’s safe to comb Barbie’s hair.
It’s safe to take a bath with Barbie.
Meds are not included.
Barbie wipes her forehead.
How would she take the pills anyway?
Mattel never placed her in circulation.
Tucked away deep in a Mattel closet,
Infectious Disease Doctor Ken takes care of her,
though her body will never age.
She doesn’t have to worry about routine blood work
or telling friends, family, or fans she’s positive.
They’d only ask how she contracted HIV.
content warning for homophobia
Homophobic Barbie
She didn’t picket when marriage equality passed,
only asked, How do you know who the bride is?
When SCOTUS ruled on workplace discrimination,
she was silent on Facebook, but asked Ken,
Do people really get fired for being gay?
Homophobic Barbie will tell you
she’s had an owner or two turn gay.
(Technically, it was her owner’s brothers.)
She knew one was gay when he made Q-tips
into hair rollers. The other
instigated arguments between her and Ken.
Ken had never questioned why he wasn’t allowed
to drive the Barbie Convertible across the living room.
Homophobic Barbie loves the sinner, hates the sin.
She isn’t sure two dads or two moms
create the best environment for a child
but shows up for the wedding.
She isn’t missing an open bar
or chance to do the Electric Slide
in pink heels with her sister Skipper.
After her third glass of champagne,
Homophobic Barbie explains to Skipper,
Remember, in the beginning,
Mattel created Barbie and Ken, not Ben and Ken.
Pandemic Barbie
after Denise Duhamel’s “Antichrist Barbie”
She sits inside her Barbie Malibu Dreamhouse—
a socialite waiting on her assistant.
Her body yearns to be dressed
by little girls, but especially those little boys
who bring the glitz and glamour.
Mothers debate—let the dolls sit for 2 to 3 days
post play date or wipe them down with Lysol.
Barbie doesn’t have COVID, cry little girls,
and little boys, who in secret, love her.
The boys grow up to cinch their waists,
sissy their walk, balk at lace front wigs,
leave families behind, free their inner Barbie,
grow up to be men thankful
one blue pill a day prevents at least one virus.
Equinox
Somewhere in Illinois, our names are carved in stone.
My muscles remember it—the seizing of skin
as I clutched a small knife and shredded the earth’s bone
beneath the steel blade. Tell me there was reason for this,
that he, too, thought something so simple could save us.
Warmed by new sun, the frozen lake splintered open.
Winter uncurled its cold fists. Snow blackened
into the dead grass as we buried
the memory of our bodies in the wet footpaths.
Please, let me love this memory, just this one.
Let me recall the way the bluffs swallowed us whole,
the way we realized how small we were, how brief—
a scattered shadow, a freckle on his arm.

content warning for animal death, domestic violence and feticide
An Unkindness
Scavengers found the doe before us, but we find
what is left—bloated stomach pulled so tight
the skin split
like the seam of a leather canteen. Intestines,
still spotted pink in the dark rotten, slip
into snow. The stink of old blood and mold
rise into the chill. A viscera stitched together with lace-
webbed sinew.
I barely recognize the heart,
a muscle like any other.
I can’t look away. The doe’s mouth: unhinged
steel trap. The neck bone snapped and curved
back like a ceramic bowl. He and I stand still over the body. Afraid
it means never being able to leave him,
I do not tell him I’m pregnant.
I know the next time I make him angry,
he will kill the baby.
I want him to.

content warning for child abuse and domestic violence
Meditation as He Fractures My Collarbone
It is hard to imagine him as a small boy on his mattress
in the garage, pressing bruises with his thumb
as he says a prayer for each unbroken
rib and still-hinged socket. His body making myths
of his father, building him up brick by brick,
the way young boys do when a jaw
is too splintered to form forgiveness. It is hard to imagine
the walls he was thrown into, drywall gritted
between his teeth. It is hard to imagine
I’m the first woman he loved with his palm pressed
to her throat, skin plum-dark, capillaries like shattered
cathedral glass. I imagined it: his mother
framing family photos, wanting something to cover the shadows
her husband knuckled into the walls. She must have prayed
for a better son, knew he would remember this
and never crack even one fragile thing. At some point, he stopped
and held me, said that he did not know how to love anything.
But he did, and chose not to, and did not apologize.

content warning for rape
Tetra —
When I wake he is already inside of me.
A voice comes from my mouth,
not mine, a brass pricked cylinder
music box rotating into yes. Summer hums
humid air through the crack in our wall.
Quiet under the weight of his body, I find
a water stain on the ceiling, imagine
each damp spot is a cluster of stars
and name the constellation. I know
this shape: a beast with its mouth curdled open.
