Doll Baby, by Erica Dawson

I was born, Mom says, by the Slice-
N-Tug, Cesarean, just hand-
Picked like a toy from a trunk—God-tanned
And yet, transparent? ice-

Blue cord choking a hold
Around my neck. I convalesced
In incubator sheen, undressed
And darling, I’ve been told.

From preemie small, I grew
Past grown (“Goddamn Incredible Hulk.”)
I’m too-short pants and breasts, all bulk,
And nipple peek-a-boo,

Barbie, and Glamour Do.
I’m Elegance. I’ve seen mom’s scar,
And my stretch mark of rouge et noir,
The pubescent residue

From the navel down, from where
I grew—my pigment’s treasure trail
Like bristle on an alpha male.
But am I debonair

Since someone told me once,
“You’re big enough to be a man”—
Adam in Eve, all Dapper Dan
And Dressy Bessy? Once,

Twice, three times a lady? Yes,
Me tall? Yes. Model-like I’ll lie
In a Da Vinci sprawl (fee fi . . . )
And feminine finesse.

I’m Stretch. I’m doll-like seams
Inside and out. My brain’s in two
Halves split again. In transitu
My veins shoot blood in beams

Of brilliant red, the red
Of airbrushed lips, of toy-faced cheeks.
I’ll flirt in flush because Clinique’s
On sale. I’ll lie in bed

Made-up, a daydream death
With playtime rigor mortis, id stiff
In still-life poise, and watch my midriff
Rise, and hear one last breath.

Post mortem, Mommy’s prize
Will close her eyes and (finally) abstain,
The Porcelain Princéss, the Chatelaine
Dwindling to average size.