Julie Dymon
Coup de Doll
My reign as Queen-sister began last year
on Christmas day when Barbie power raised
me up, securing my seat of government,
by wielding Western Barbie‘s winking eye.
“Go fill the Zip-lock bags with water now
to make our Barbie‘s waterbeds and then
I‘ll let you play with Western Barbie”,
I arranged, while aiming Barbie‘s nineteen-eighty‘s sky—
blue shaded winking lid directly at
my little sister for increased effect—
a hesitation—then, her seven-year-
old hands, in fierce akimbo, break into
extended index finger wags. Unconscious
mimicking of my repeated sass,
she demands me to, “Pinkie-swear
it, or do it yourself!” The smallest finger vow
is made. Betrayed by my own loyalty
to kid-law, I was no longer the Queen.
In standing her ground, all power transferred
equally between us sisters. My fate
reduced to worker bee because Western
Barbie, once mighty scepter, now, is doll.