Issue 2:
Myth
Janet I. Buck
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The Pink Corvette
Part of me alive and well
in Barbie's world.
Neon lights of sequins
on her evening dress.
Her legs sun-worshipped by the dawn.
Dressing her a ritual.
But hardly in the native tongue
we call the land of crippledom.
The other part, an abattoir.
The Auschwitz of capricious
bones that held me hostage
through the night.
Then there were the hand-me-downs.
A Venus bombed.
Apostasies that came with tears:
"Those dolls are worth
a fortune now," my mother
said complacently when
Chevas Regal shut her eyes.
"I can't believe you threw them out."
Perhaps she couldn't fathom why.
Pistol whipping. Unmet dreams.
Disparity would spit me out
and make me feel like
petting zoos for pity's hands.
Strange how myths of little girls
designed to grow them toward themselves
can knuckle under like a shrimp,
shrunken by the empty space
that should have been a melon knee.
Her pink corvette would have to be
a fountain pen of pouring pain.
Cinderella slipper-less would never see a
rolling carriage disconnected from a crutch.
The sunlight rested on her stoic;
will chauffeured the limousine.
~Janet I. Buck
Janet teaches writing and literature at the college level. Her poetry and essays have appeared in journals, anthologies, and e-zines world-wide.
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© 1999 by Janet I. Buck. All Rights Reserved.
© 2000-2002 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.
This page updated April 23, 2002.