She's got her
bride clothes
on the floor, her
cancan skirt,
pale ruffly fish
net tights and a
cameo choker
tossed around the
bed like a moat.
Now she's got 
the remote control
clicker and can
switch and change,
not be at someone
else's whim, her
body twisted,
dressed and un-
dressed, a slave
to another's 
fingers as if her
ankles were bound
in leather, chained,
legs spread apart.
Travel Around the
World with Barbie
stamped on her fore-
head in catalogues
from Sears.  She is
sick of having
a rod jammed up in
side her, of being
boxed in with a
hair brush that
usually goes where
it shouldn't.  She
wants to lie in
tv light, not have
to hide what she is
missing:  a belly
button, skin that
smells like skin,
doesn't want to
have to keep smiling
as any stranger who
buys her twists her
arm out of its socket
or throws her out