Can You Stand Another Box of Heads?
Did you ever have a parent absolutely, totally, convinced beyond doubt that you were going to grow up and be a doctor? I did. And I blame Barbie for that.
We all know Barbie. Perfect face, perfect hair, perfect permanent blue eyeshadow. Pretty much the antithesis of me and everyone else. But if you grew up in a certain era, the standard of beauty was Barbie.
Well, Barbie, like the rest of us, like everything out there in the world, is composed of her constituent parts. Eyes, ears, arms, legs, other bits. The problem I found was that I still didn’t know what to do with all of those parts, even when I separated and sorted them.
My great uncle brought me a doll. Dad’s brothers sent me dolls and other trinkets from Vietnam, where they were stationed. Mom’s cousin sent me a doll from his time in the South China Sea, in the Navy.
Barbie, Barbie, Barbie. Or the Asian equivalent.
Not all of them looked like Barbie. But, it was still clear that Barbie’s was the standard of beauty against which all were measured.
When you are a kid, trying to figure out what is really meant by beauty, what portion of you really can claim to be beautiful, then all you can do is keep trying until you find something that seems to represent you. Something that seems to represent you better than the world frequented by dilettantes. Something that lets everyone see the world as it is: muddy, grungy, stained, dirty, exhausted or exhilarated.
Well here is Box of Heads, II which I think would probably be my mother’s least favorite of my poems. Partly because it calls into mind her questioning of me. Partly because it seems like a question that is timeless. Meaning, unhinged from time.
Box of Heads, II
I could take them apart:
heads, torsos, arms, legs
with their perpetually pointed toes,
perfectly arched soles,
and sort them neatly into piles.
Then from piles into storage.
Heads in the shoe box, legs
in an old make up bag, a box
empty of Christmas cards for the bodies,
and the graceful hands
nestled in a sack of plastic green grass
meant for cradling Easter treats.
Which was all fine until
Mother found the shoe box
of perfect Barbie heads
(along with the one GI Joe, the one
with the fuzzy beard)
and had to ask why?
Why? Why were the dolls pulled apart?
Was I angry with them,
had they done something wrong?
She wanted logic. What
kind of answer was there to give?
No, I was not preparing
for a serial killer career. No,
I did not think I would be a physician.
A scientist, maybe.
OK, if pushed, you could say
I was researching.
And disappointed to find
those hollow heads empty
except for the odor of plastic,
stubby ends of hair.
Some with tans, some without.
I was searching and re-searching
but not finding. Or, more exactly,
not liking what I found.
If you enjoyed Box of Heads, II
You’ll find more of my poems on this blog or in the collection Stars Crawl Out From Their Caves, which is available in both ebook and print. Missed a poem of the week? Links to prior weeks are on this page.
As always, comments are welcome. Opinions are welcome!
Have a great week!