BARBIE
for my sister

Before we could stutter

each other’s existence

or knew we’d have the same

brows and chin

Before we moved into the same ’hood

(your adult and my child)

I kept some form of you

as a Barbie.

I’d act out

sibling moments we never had,

lost by 17 years of our clueless dad,

17 years of your silent mother.

She knew he’d made you, but

knew he’d make you one of us,

so she hid you

up in San Francisco.

I learned the art of imagination

digging for you

in a bottomless, florescent toy chest.

Finding a dolly with your kind of possible pubescence,

I flipped through magazines,

cut out eyes

I thought could be yours

and taped them on.

Barbie had slumber parties

I snuck in on

and got kicked out of

by her older, cooler friends.

I’d cry and burn one of her favorite dresses

in the bathroom sink while she was sleeping.

She had breasts I crushed on,

like I would’ve yours in secrecy.

I made her the bra

I was never able to steal

from the drawer of your

adolescence.

Was never able

to sling over my tadpole ribs

while you were out becoming

someone.

I wanted to know what you’d think of me,

like a mirror wants to become a drag queen.

Barbie’s ass was one

I was ready to grow into.

My sister,

you were an undiscovered eyelash,

plucked up by Jesse Nolan in the 2nd grade,

who squealed “Make a wish! For a Nintendo!”

And even though it took you

17 years to come true,

I still have that sock you forgot

at Dad’s house,

the first week we learned how

to make a tiara out of our arms.

To trace our suddenness

in the abyss of each other’s absence.

That sock became a sleeping bag

for Barbie, who finally gave me

my own space

on the floor at her slumber parties.