A Friend of Barbie

A Friend of Barbie

 

There’s nothing quite like starting

really committing suicide.

At an age when many

advocate for the pleasures,

I, the friend of Barbie,

realize the futile symbolic battles we fight.

 

I am a woman on the edge

with nothing left to prove.

I don’t want to be scared of a grapefruit,

and I’m craving for a treat.

 

The little ones, they are embraced

by members of the opposite sex

as dainty, frail, and lovable.

They are full of the giddy joy of being

the smallest slice.

 

I refuse to be a bird watcher anymore,

and I will not have lettuce guilt.

I’m quite beyond the enormous

as I consider a new vendetta:

breaking free of intravenous tubes.

 

Surveying this scene of self-imposed starvation

that is becoming a national trend,

I feel the pain of weight.

As our bodies dissipate,

I intone a chant that will perhaps sustain the less resilient.

 

Women seem strong

but we hoard food

like some kind of junkies.

 

We feel true hunger

as we undergo a full withdrawal

from nourishment.

Counting caloric intake

helps digest the need to eat.

 

I’ve spent most of my life

arranging my thigh fat,

and I’ve never slept in the nude.

I’ve had it really lucky.

Of some two dozen girls,

three died of starvation.

 

In that endless human stupidity,

women get caught in the silly lie

 that bone skinny is gorgeous

and retraining the size of body parts

is a priority that is emergency.

 

As we start to nibble,

women should actually unite and try

to escape the pubescent mantra

that one size should fit all

and understand

that the world is a wide

assortment of people.

 

So, your thighs might look like cottage cheese.

But I, the friend of Barbie,

plead to have cellulite put on Barbie dolls.

 

We deserve to eat,

and have our pictures taken, too.

 

                                Boone, NC   Fall, 1997

                                B. Faulkner


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bfaulkner
Poetry
Free Verse
writing bfaulkner
Toward what city will I travel? What wild houses do I go to occupy? What vagrant rooms and streets and lights in the long night urge my expectation?...Allen Ginsberg 1954: "Siesta in Xbalba"
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