The day Barbie pulled a Sylvia Plath
in the Easy Bake Oven was a day
of great reflection in my usually sheltered
small town of a bedroom.
Ken hid his head beneath the hood
of that garage sale convertible
(which he’d promised to fix
and never got around to)
and blamed himself.
After all, everyone knew he wasn’t
anatomically correct.
Skipper numbed the loss
by sneaking off with HeMan
to smoke a joint under the bed.
She-Ra was livid when she found them
half naked
and proclaimed the girl
‘just like her sister.’
Strawberry Shortcake
and that snotty little
bitch Rainbow Brite provided unbaked refreshments
and told anyone who would listen
that they would’ve invited
the poor dear
to their TupperWare parties
and make-overs
but they just assumed she had everything.
The Weebles
who knew what it was
to be misproportioned
dipped into the keg
a bit too much
and though it wasn’t supposed to be possible
a few ceased to wobble
and just fell down.
I let them speculate about
Barbie’s chronic back pain,
her eating disorders,
the hair cut my brother issued,
her obvious manic obsession with careers.
And only I, age six,
Angry, awkward and small
knew what it was
to keep that smile stretched so far
that you swallowed your

Copyright 2006,  Nikol Knapmiller

Nikol Knapmiller is a poet from Wisconsin who dabbles in various art media. She paints, writes, acts, sings, and cleans a toilet like nobody you’ve ever encountered. She is currently looking for her keys.


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