Laura Bandy

When we were young, my twin

would chew the feet off our Barbies.

Sometimes she gnawed faces, too.

She loved them so much

she wanted them inside her. This

is my guess—that consuming

seemed a way to become one

with the small dolls we imagined real.

I never imagined myself

in a plastic surgeon’s office, but

the soft sculpture shaped like a ripe

honeydew and formed of pink velvet

mop-like strips scattered with glitter

feels very Barbie to me. And thus—

glamorous, good. I should be

grateful that a surgeon will give me

new breasts, is required by law

to rebuild me after cancer chewed

through my too-dense tissue, my

sneaky mammary lobes. The tumor

loved me. The tumor wanted more

of me, wants more, wants all. A

love like that you wait for your whole

life, a Ken better than kin, an all-in

Laura-obsessive. Choices are slim—

silicone or saline, over or under

the pectoral muscle like a Blackjack

bet. Will they saw through your chest wall

or simply slip implants into the flesh

envelopes left when they cut the mass out

along with both breasts? Barbie chooses

dresses—evening gown shimmering

a rosy mosaic bustier of glass-like pebbles,

hard to the touch, bejeweling clouds of peach

tulle. Perhaps it is texture that invites

the bite; irresistible shiny Chiclet-sized

adornment ripe for a child’s teeth to rip

off and spit out, over and over. Barbie’s

charm must be inborn, surely, so that

staring up out of the airless box—feet stubs,

bust bare, mouth hole—still, you’ll choose her

won’t you