They say it all the time:
what a lucky bitch.

But she is not rich
and the things she owns are not hers:
the pink plastic dream home,
pink plastic Cadillac,
pink plastic on-again off-again Ken.
If her eyes slant sideways,
always searching for the next want,
they are only painted on. Fair and unfair
doesn’t mean a thing to toys. Barbie never worked
for her pink plastic Cadillac
(and never asked for it, either)
but it was made to fit only her long legs.

She is leaving the world that is pink with desire,
on her gray cardboard rocket ship.
Her pointed toes land on a surface that is gray too,
black and white paper muddled by water
and glue, a paper-mache moon, lumpy surface
shaped by the seven-year-old hand
of a creator with ambition
that outstrips her skill.

Looking down from the surface of the moon,
Barbie’s sideways eyes fill with millions
of dream homes, pink plastic Cadillacs,
even millions of Kens, all made for her long legs.
If one breaks, a million others will take its place.

The moon was made for her, too,
craters carefully layered on by a child
who thinks she is the only Barbie in the world,
or at least the best—the only Barbie
worthy to walk on the surface of her fragile creation.

Looking up from the surface of the moon,
the child’s eyes fill with
millions of stars.
Like the Cadillac, not made for her,
but someday hers.