What to Do with Your Limbs

Hit and run and only Barbie's
legs remain here. Pointed toe made

right for special shoes now flattened,
disregarded in the midday

intersection. Was it anger,
chance disinterest, this perversion?

Boredom, then, or subtle vengeance,
launching plastic bones from open

windows? Bank on mercy. Listen:
all this time spent racing, left leg

leading first then followed, do you
really think your troubles ever

worth concern? How blond our hair or
pink our car, our false careers as

teachers, brides, hygienists, or our
dog walks, racing cars, remodels,

riding horses, or the time we
make to spend on Ken, or naked,

tangled, lost neglected under
beds of growing children. Doesn’t

matter. Sometimes, plans are working
to defeat. Conspiracies will

toss your pretty legs from windows.
That’ll slow the girl down.

by Amber Norwood

Amber Norwood received her M.A. in poetry from California State University, Northridge, where she is now a lecturer. When she is not reading papers, she writes poems and makes music in her Los Angeles home, where she lives with her husband and cat. Her work has appeared in Prick of the Spindle, Journal of Truth and Consequence and others; she has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

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