Her high arches defy the stirrups
and her legs refuse to open wide.
She has no complaints, cramps,
spottings, or flashes. It doesn't hurt
when the doctor presses on her abdomen.
There's nowhere for him to take a pap smear,
but Barbie's gynecologist suggests a D and C,
a hysterectomy, then a biopsy, just to be sure.
Barbie rebels as her breasts refuse to give
under the weight of the mammogram machine's plate.
She doesn't own a nightie suitable
for hospital wear, she explains, as she refuses operations
and scrunches the disposable examining frock
into a ball. She tosses it into the trash can
with relief. Not even Barbie looks good
in that pale green. She'll skip her-follow up appointment
on behalf of the rest of us who can't
and circle the globe, a tiny copy of The New Our Bodies,
Ourselves under her arm. The book will fire her imagination,
each chapter a fashion doll's version of the best science fiction.