My Barbie Dated George Harrison
There was just too much competition for Paul--
so my red-headed Barbie chose George, the unappreciated Beatle.
His half-shadowed face floated bodiless
on the cover of Meet the Beatles.
George: shy good looks, narrow jaw, little Vampire tooth.
Not the huge, sad puppy eyes of Paul, but pretty eyes anyway,
eyes looking at you like you were outta sight.
And he was kind, innocent, happy
just to dance with me… I mean with Barbie.
Imaginary George (no stiff Ken would do) squealed up in his imaginary
baby blue XK-E, not the Dreamcar (not on fifty-cents-an-hour babysitting).
To catch some rays, she wore the iconic red swimsuit, white sunglasses,
heels, always the high heels: impractical at the beach, yes
but her tip-toed feet couldn’t stand anything else.
Back at her place
not the Dreamhouse—one I made from wooden blocks--
she and George would sit and talk on her shoebox bed.
Sometimes they’d make out. He’d stroke her
cottony hair, never out of its ponytail. Blue eyeshadow: always perfect.
The day George died, the radio played While My Guitar Gently Weeps.
I wept too. And I knew Barbie would—if she still had her head.
(The dog chewed it off).
I keep her body (the shape we girls starved to achieve)
in the black vinyl Solo in the Spotlight double case. Her accessories
in the cardboard drawers. Her clothes—tatty but beautiful—hang on
tiny hangers on tiny racks.
There was just too much competition for Paul--
so my red-headed Barbie chose George, the unappreciated Beatle.
His half-shadowed face floated bodiless
on the cover of Meet the Beatles.
George: shy good looks, narrow jaw, little Vampire tooth.
Not the huge, sad puppy eyes of Paul, but pretty eyes anyway,
eyes looking at you like you were outta sight.
And he was kind, innocent, happy
just to dance with me… I mean with Barbie.
Imaginary George (no stiff Ken would do) squealed up in his imaginary
baby blue XK-E, not the Dreamcar (not on fifty-cents-an-hour babysitting).
To catch some rays, she wore the iconic red swimsuit, white sunglasses,
heels, always the high heels: impractical at the beach, yes
but her tip-toed feet couldn’t stand anything else.
Back at her place
not the Dreamhouse—one I made from wooden blocks--
she and George would sit and talk on her shoebox bed.
Sometimes they’d make out. He’d stroke her
cottony hair, never out of its ponytail. Blue eyeshadow: always perfect.
The day George died, the radio played While My Guitar Gently Weeps.
I wept too. And I knew Barbie would—if she still had her head.
(The dog chewed it off).
I keep her body (the shape we girls starved to achieve)
in the black vinyl Solo in the Spotlight double case. Her accessories
in the cardboard drawers. Her clothes—tatty but beautiful—hang on
tiny hangers on tiny racks.
Karen Paul Holmes has a full-length poetry collection, Untying the Knot (Aldrich Press, 2014). She was chosen for Best Emerging Poets 2015 (Stay Thirsty Media, forthcoming). Publications include Prairie Schooner, Poetry East, Atlanta Review, Slipstream, and Poet Lore.