Amy Maddox – Poetry


In 1955, Santa neglected
the words “Bride Barbie” scrawled
in Crayola on the back of a discarded
grocery list. And half a century
later, hundreds of tiny azure eyes
stare back at me from a second
hand trophy case that displays
their voluptuous plastic figures,
capped with synthetic flaxen locks,
dressed to kill
for a hundred nuptials,
black tie affairs, and performances
of Swan Lake. Entombed
in cellophane and coated with grime
and clumps of fur that floats
through the house like dandelion spores,
their vapid cheshire grins violate
the tone of this imprisonment.
Too numerous for display, they overflow;
dusty pink boxes stacked floor
to ceiling in the shower stall
that hasn’t worked in fourteen
years. Clothing displaced
into baskets as their occupation spread
to fill the closet, the window sill,
underneath the bed, and every corner
because this isn’t an illness –it’s a collection.