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 Click here listen to Denise & Dustin's Barbie issue interview on The Hive.


B. Fulton Jennes

Barbara Unger

Caridad Moro-Gronlier

Dorianne Laux

James Allen Hall

Joanna Fuhrman

Judy Ireland

Kathleen Nalley

Kerry Trautman

Michael Montlack

Michael Steffen

Nikki Moustaki

Peter Johnson

Sara Moore Wagner

Suzanne Cleary

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Barbra Nightingale

Pronouns: She/Her

1 Poem


Barbie Gets Divorced*


Let’s face it: at fifty

I no longer feel twenty

though you’d never guess

to look at me.  Ah!

The wonders of polystyrene.

But in the night, I turn

slick as glass, hot flashes

almost melting my plastic bed.

Just as Ken finished

his manly stuff, fiddling

with the A/C, adjusting the fan,

I’d be freezing, teeth chattering so hard

my molded smile could crack,

pink skin turned icy blue. 


Frustrated, Ken slept on the couch

and pretty soon Skipper

looked better and better

and Ken moved out.

“Fifty years!” I shouted at him,

“I supported you for fifty years!”

Everyone knows that Ken never held

a job, it was always me—

from fashion model to nurse

to lawyer to CEO.  Everything

was mine.  Did you ever see

Ken’s camper or Ken’s sports car?

Of course not!  All Ken had

was his spiffy clothes with the Velcro crotch.

(He was more a Johnny-come-quickly

than anything else.)

But did he care?  Did he appreciate?

No!  Soon as things got rough

he left.  It wasn’t my fault my fist

would wind up in his eye, or my toes

stuck behind his ear; my body was on fire!

I was sticky, going soft around the edges.

Nothing I could do!  The rat, squeamish

as he was, bailed, then sued me for half of it all.

Talk about a bitter pill—what’s left for me?

Even GI Joe is younger than me, and last time

I saw him, he was missing a leg.  “War’s hell” he said.

Well, all that’s water down the drain

as I always say.  I’m not one to pout.

I’ll just drive this spiffy coupe

over to headquarters and pour me another guy!

They may have retired the mold that made me,

but brother, you’re a dime a dozen.

Look out, boys, here I come!

*This poem was originally published in International Literary Quarterly (December 2010).

Barbra Nightingale’s (she/her) 10th book of poetry is Spells & Other Ways of Flying (Kelsay Books, 2021). She has seven chapbooks and two other full volumes of poetry with small presses. Over 200 of her poems have appeared in National and International Journals and Anthologies. She is an Associate Editor with the South Florida Poetry Journal, a retired professor, and lives in Hollywood, Florida, with her two and four-legged menagerie.

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Ben Kline

Pronouns: He/Him

1 Poem


Ken Blew Me


silently, behind the concession stand

on the home side of Cardinal Field.

Barbie watched us, which was not

the first time this happened to me. 


I say happened to because the dream

began when Ken asked and I unzipped

and Barbie offered to be the lookout

for any teachers or parents, cloaked


nuns on a late night stroll, my dad 

yelling Keep it straight when I daydreamed

on the tractor, drifting across the field. 

Ken worked fast, his hands kneading 


my ass and perineum, tugging my balls 

like this wasn’t his first time on payroll

for the devil. Barbie said That’s his fave

part when I grunted and he gulped.


She put her hair up into a side pony. 

Now, can we party? I woke, my husband

Adam snoring beside me, then fell

into Barbie’s pink convertible zooming 


to Skipper’s rental at the lake, Ken 

and Adam making out in the backseat, 

Barbie saying Look, you know guys

do what they want and we shouldn’t


waste time worrying about it. I slid 

my arms around Adam, who curled 

into my body and continued snoring

unaware of the party, Ken’s anaconda


jaw, the convertible chalkboarding

the curve as Barbie and I laughed, heads

back, mouths to the moon, our blond 

ponytail tongues whipping in the wind.

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Ben Kline (he/him) lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. Author of the chapbooks SAGITTARIUS A* and DEAD UNCLES, Ben was the 2021 recipient of Patricia Goedicke Prize in Poetry. His work is forthcoming or can be found in POETRY, Rejection Letters, Southeast Review, THRUSH, CutBank, fourteen poems, Hobart and many other publications

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Beth Gylys

Pronouns: She/Her

3 Poems


Red Riding Hood Barbie, A Triptych


        1. Walk Through The Woods


Barbie knows it’s all about the outfit:

fishnet socks, kitten heels, red bows

at the knees, scarlet hood, woven basket.


She saunters through the forest like she owns it.

Hood up or hood down? she wonders out loud through rows

of pines—knowing it’s all about the outfit.


He’s focused on the flesh, of course. He smells it—

the nasty wolf—and salivating, starts to follow

eye level to her knees, the dangling basket.


He stands and she startles. He wants meat

bad, and he’s dressed to kill: yellow boots, bow

tie…Mattel knows it’s all about the outfit.


My dear, he growls, his smile all fang and spit,

Why traipsing through the woods and all alone?

She stops, hood flung back, woven basket


clutched, and bats her eyes, I’m off to visit

grandma. I mustn’t talk to strangers though,

and tosses her head, all about the outfit:

slim knees, scarlet hood, woven basket. 

         2. Grandma’s House


Woven basket, slim knees, scarlet hood,

the stranger gone, she skips along the path.

His darker shadow slips through the wood.


What a creep, she thinks, all hairy and brood-

ing. Nothing like my Ken. She pictures him: slim girth,

tall boots, strong jaw, tan cape and woolen hood….


Blank eyes go blanker. Together we look so good!   

She stops to gather flowers for grandma’s hearth.

That darker shadow slipping from the wood


has other plans for grandma. Hungry for blood,

he smacks his lips together then opens his mouth

so wide her old knees buckle. When scarlet hood


arrives, Grandma’s inside him in the bed.

Barbie is startled, Grandma looks like death

its dark shadow encroaching from the wood.


Grandma, what big eyes you have, she said,

the story goes, but Barbie was speechless in truth:

dropped basket, slim knees shaking, scarlet hood

askew, facing this shadow from the wood.   

        3. Party Time


Facing the shadow, startled by what she sees,

Barbie tries to think of something fun:

Plum lipstick, Ken’s cute smile, slumber parties.


Dark and hairy arms beneath the sheets.

Grandma croaks, Come lie beside me little one.

A shadow. She tries not to notice, but sees


as grandma smiles, the sharp blades of her teeth.

(So many)! Barbie gasps and swoons and then she’s gone.

No lips, no hood, no smile, no thought of parties.


The wolf inhales her, then promptly falls asleep

and starts to snore so loudly it draws a huntsman  

wandering past who’s startled by what he sees:


a bonneted wolf passed out on floral sheets,

his stomach huge. With one ax-stroke, it’s done:

Grandma and Barbie stand free as a party


with no parents, the wolf split from neck to feet.

Grandma moves to put the kettle on.

The huntsman bows and startles Barbie who sees

it’s Ken! Their kiss makes her body feel like a party.         

Beth Gylys (she/her) is an award-winning poet and professor of creative writing at Georgia State University. Her 4th collection of poetry, Body Braille, was recently released by Iris Press. Her other books include Sky Blue Enough to DrinkSpot in the Dark, and Bodies that Hum; she has also published two chapbooks Matchbook and Balloon Heart.

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Dan Vera

Pronouns: He/Him

1 Poem



One day curiosity finally took hold

of a little boy who held his breath

to sneak inside his sister’s room

and steal her Ken away

to some private place,
where undisturbed from prying eyes
he’d search for answers to an unspoken question.

What cunning linguist named him Ken,
from the Middle English to make known,
or the west Frisian to know or feel,
or most ironic, the obsolete Scottish to catch sight of.

There was nothing beneath Ken’s fashion togs
but Mattel’s cost cutting strategy:
less plastic to extrude meant less to form
much less to amplify inside the mind of a
curious boy confounded by that false slab
with its smooth smooth surface of disappointment.

But left to one’s imagination
curiosity will only grow about other forms

and the potential shapes of other packages.

Now they come bundled in thrift stores,

four or five naked “boy” dolls in a clear bag,

Ken squeezed together with a wrestler,
a buff soldier, warrior, or superhero
all freed of their form-fitting costumes,
tan, brown, and pink flesh together
pressed in perpetual ghost frottage
like an afterlife of delight for every
once curious boy now grown old.

Dan Vera (he/him) is a first-gen, borderlands born Queer-Tejano Latinx writer, editor, and literary historian of Cuban/Caribbean ancestry. Awarded the Oscar Wilde Award for Poetry and the Letras Latinas/Red Hen Poetry Prize, he co-edited Imaniman: Poets Writing In The Anzaldúan Borderlands and authored two books of poetry. He’s been featured by the Poetry Foundation, the NEA and in academic curricula, various journals and anthologies. He lives in Washington DC with his beloved Pete and their blessed dog Blossom.

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Diamond Forde

Pronouns: She/Her

1 Poem


we must break, or the speaker fights herself about her smallness


                    “I learned young to be the smallest target.” –torrin a. greathouse


my hips root like wild hogs

against my dress           i buckle

a quiet belt around them—this holding back,

a harness meant to tether me

              to the rash-mashed belly of the world


i was raised in the way of field mice, low

nose scrounging against

              any sound shuffled up

                            in the mud,      & i felt safest

              rising like smoke through drawn rooms—

i hope to make in me a door

that only i can open     there is nothing


small about me

but i was convinced i had to be smaller

so chiseled all day at my wrists with a house key

till the welts inflamed, a field of poppies


i’ve always been afraid,

have always bucked

against my unkempt tongue,

tired, fought myself mostly


                            (stop sobbing. stop sopping globules of snot

                            with your sweatshirt pocket. go shower.

                            shit. brush your teeth—for the love-of-your-god

                            fucking eat        


                                                        the landscape of your childhood:

                            its thousand red umbrellas—


                            Or Beyond Pink Barbie™,

                            that neon god w/ a hot guitar, fuchsia dress

                            vinyl-slick against the pink diamond

                            her bent arm made against her waist


                                                        —a rock bop—


till you popped her head from her too-tan neck

               —Frankenstein-eqsue, that parental urge to dismantle

                what you say is yours)


& how many nights did i cradle that Barbie, coddling

her crimped bangs with drool? & how purposeful

my adolescent fingers wiping play’s scuff

for her plum-perfect smile—


              that I might one day delight in finding 

              Beyond Pink Barbie ™’s head fit snug

              on my nightlight, the tapered bulb

              flexing her jaw into gossamer light—


              (gruesome, but you loved how she cast

              your whole room peach hues


& went to sleep mesmerized by her eyes

turned headlights)


                            was it reckless


if i didn’t know

fire needs only one small fumbling


              (when you smelled smoke, woke to watch it shaking

              its tresses through the late hour, Beyond Pink Barbie

              a torched grin on the wall, heat-gnarled,

              eyes bleached with fluorescent fever)


and my parents—


(still asleep,

still unaware of this promised flame

coaxing in their kids’ room)                 i learned


to swallow fear like a horse pill,  

to hide evidence, (to shun dolls) to pray

smoke would ghost by morning (to tithe

obedience) to tuck my singed finger

behind another when I grabbed a glass

to drink, to sleep in the dark


              that i would rather sleep in the dark


than admit the fear pooling out my edges,

spilling rivulets, faucets from my ears

in arcs, wet-blaring its hydrant

urgency across the carpets


            (stop sobbing. stop sopping—)


my family left me

a generation     of breaking

so I must break            (everything they’ve given us)

Diamond Forde (she/her) is the author of Mother Body, with Saturnalia Books. Her work has been published in Obsidian, Boston Review, Massachusetts Review and more. She is a University Fellow at UNC-Asheville and a PhD candidate at Florida State University.

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Dion O'Reilly

Pronouns: She/Her

1 Poem


Bubble Cut Barbie


Little Lazurus, I lifted her,

from her cellophane box—kissed her dark

pink lips, side-glancing eyes, and Titian hair,

bubble cut like Sister’s and Mother’s. At the parlour,

when they sat under silver domes, I haunted the corners,

stripped Barbie’s striped suit. She smiled,

asked me to touch her nippleless breasts, her unfolded vulva.

I said Yes. Yes. She smiled harder and harder.

As Mother and Sister, bee hives polished, stood

and smoothed their pencil skirts,

I whispered in an unhollowed ear: I’ll never be real.

I was awed by the power of being seen. Only seen—

no babies to break me, nothing to enter me, no bleeding,

no dying. I’d never do anything.

Dion O'Reilly (she/her) grew up on a farm in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Her debut book, Ghost Dogs, was published in February 2020 by Terrapin Books. Her work appears in American Journal of Poetry, Cincinnati Review, Narrative, The New Ohio Review, The Massachusetts Review, New Letters, and other literary journals and anthologies.  She is a member of The Hive Poetry Collective, which produces podcasts, radio shows, and events. She teaches workshops with poets from all over the United States and Canada.

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Emma Bolden

Pronouns: She/Her

1 Poem


Girl Lessons


Barbie could be anything

as long as she had the right

outfit: Space Shuttle astronaut.


Jazzercise instructor. A hanger

for Bob Mackie’s sequins and faux

fur. A metaphor for perfume. In red


velvet and tulle, another metaphor,

this time for love. Whatever

her job, there was one constant


expectation: Ken had to be there,

a hunk hulking in muscled plastic

as a husband at her side. Barbie had no


friends, ghosted Midge the first time

she saw the nippleless expanse

of Ken’s tanned chest. And at a certain


point in every game, my own friend

peered around for any mothers

who may be watching before


scissoring Barbie’s legs apart

and offering them to Ken,

banging them together as if


that was what every sitcom refused

to show us behind the shut doors,

the fade-to-black cuts, the exit credits,


what made every mother hold a hand

over their children’s eyes so that they saw

only darkness, not at whatever made


those moans onscreen. Oh God, oh God. Yes,

I did the same with my own Barbies,

following my friend’s lead. I didn’t


understand. And sometimes I’d look

to see if I could find the secret

in the inscrutable zeroes between Ken


and Barbie’s legs. Oh God. Oh God.

Nothing. Barbie taught us. We could be

anything that lay between her limits:


wife, mother. But what, I wondered,

if I didn’t want that, the thick muscled

bulk of a Ken all thunder against me?


What if I didn’t want to know, after all,

what happened behind that door, inside

that sitcom’s dark? You’re just not any good


at being a girl, my friend would say, her Barbie

naked in one hand, Ken in the other,

oh God, I didn’t know how to tell her


to stop. I didn’t know how to say it,

that I already knew what I could not want.

Emma Bolden (she/her) is the author of House Is an Enigma (Southeast Missouri State University Press), medi(t)ations (Noctuary Press), and Maleficae (GenPop Books). The recipient of an NEA Fellowship, her work has appeared in such journals as the Mississippi Review, The Rumpus, StoryQuarterly, Prairie Schooner, New Madrid, Shenandoah, and others. She currently serves as Associate Editor-in-Chief for Tupelo Quarterly and an Editor of Screen Door Review. Her memoir, The Tiger and the Cage, is forthcoming from Soft Skull Press in 2022.

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Gal Freire.jpeg

Gal Freire

Pronouns: She/Her

2 Poems


Voodoo Barbie*

When a boy rips off the head

of a Barbie, a man,
on the other side of the earth

gets haunted by its most hidden


When the young girl rolls in the Glock,

after using her tongue as a weapon,
as bullet or word, it is violence she

augurs, trigger cocked

in the roof of her mouth

Transexual Barbie gets plastic surgery*

Barbie wakes up saying “I love myself”

records a video half pornstar
half Daddy issues
with the indispensable caption

“T-lovers of the world, unite”.

At her appointment with the plastic surgeon

She admits
“I have no commitment to nature”
After double airbags 12 oz. each

come at least some general anesthesia

a trip to Thailand
and a cyborg pussy
in a tie dye bikini size XS.

*By Gal Freire/ English translations by Miriam Adelman

Gal Freire (she/her) is a Brazilian dancer and poet. She understands her own trans woman's body as a creation that is constituted through cyborg-pharmacological technology and which, through movement, reveals and produces friction between the poles of the binaries of the natural/artificial, female/ male, organic /synthetic. In these poems, the Barbie doll is her point of departure, to which she adds her own take on a vernacular that commonly refers to trans women as “dolls."

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Gregg Shapiro.jpg

Gregg Shapiro

Pronouns: He/Him

1 Poem


SoFlo Rescue Barbie

The worst part about living in South Florida isn’t elder

abuse or vaccine hesitancy, the humidity, or hurricanes.

It’s all the orphaned Barbies, in various stages of undress

and distress, piled like junkyard cars at American Thrift,

Goodwill and Hadassah Resale. Knotted, discolored, and


hacked hair, ink-stained skin and Sharpied pubic region,

missing a limb, with a double mastectomy. At least

the queens who shop at Out of the Closet on Wilton Drive

know how to make Barbie feel loved and valued again.

Take her home to mid-century architecture and decor.


Bathe her in Calgon, shampoo her damaged locks with

Kerastase Discipline Bain Fluidealiste, massage coconut

oil into her cracking scalp. Apply Lancome Hydra Zen

to her visage. Christian Louboutin Silky Satin Lip Colour

to make her perpetual smirk even more desirable, kissable.


Nothing but Chanel Le Vernis tints her finger and toenails.

A diminutive, white gold Rolex Oyster Perpetual Day-Date 36

with diamond-paved dial, diamond-set bezel and a diamond-set

President bracelet wrapped around her slender, tapered wrist.

Tiffany diamond studs for her ears with matching diamond


and platinum pendant for her throat. Dressed to the nines;

Stuart Weitzman Cinderella slippers adorn her perfectly

pedicured and arched feet. Only vintage Valentino or Karl

Lagerfeld will do when it comes to her gowns, to be worn on

the red carpet at galas or picking up a few nibblies at Sprouts.

Gregg Shapiro (he/him) is the author of eight books including the poetry collection Fear of Muses (Souvenir Spoon Books, 2022). Recent/forthcoming lit-mag publications include The Penn ReviewExquisite PandemicRFD, Gargoyle, Limp WristMollyhouse, Impossible Archetype, Red Fern Review, Instant Noodles, Dissonance Magazine, and POETiCA REViEW. An entertainment journalist, whose interviews and reviews run in a variety of regional LGBTQ+ and mainstream publications and websites, Shapiro lives in Fort Lauderdale, Florida with his husband Rick and their dog Coco. 

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Jennifer Franklin

Pronouns: She/Her

1 Poem


Christmas 1979 


While all the other girls unwrapped

the orange and yellow dream house


with the slanted roof, I was trying to hide 

the shellacked mahogany bedroom set


that my grandfather made for my Barbies.

I knew what Amy and Lisa would say


about the stubby nightstands and the brown

twin bed that didn’t have a mattress.


I can almost smell the varnish he used

on the furniture—all wood except aluminum


foil for the mirror and the plastic lamps.

He was proudest of those shades—lids


from empty Scope bottles. And the bases—

spools of thread he painted gold


while my grandmother made sauce in the kitchen.

I longed for Barbie’s hot pink bed and armoire


that the other girls had for their blonde dolls,

as American as they were. I set up Angelo’s


furniture on a small gray towel beside the plastic

dream house from my father. The dolls looked


so confused about what to do. What to wear,

how to brush their hair in a mirror


that didn’t reflect their faces. Where

to put their bodies. How to lie down to sleep. 

Jennifer Franklin’s (she/her) most recent collection is No Small Gift (Four Way Books, 2018). Her third book, If Some God Shakes Your House, will be published by Four Way Books in 2023. Her work has appeared in American Poetry ReviewBennington ReviewBoston Review, Gettysburg Review, JAMA, The Nation, Paris Review, “poem-a-day” on poets.orgPrairie Schooner, and Rhino. She teaches manuscript revision at the Hudson Valley Writers Center, where she is Program Director. She lives in NYC.

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Jessica Barksdale

Pronouns: She/Her

1 Poem


Barbie Dream


I awaken shorn, denuded, de-sexed. Pretty spicy-

looking otherwise & way too young


for post-menopausal symptoms. Throwing on

my pink polka-dot bikini, I dance out of my Barbie


Dream House and jump my Barbie Glam convertible & jet

to the beach to play volleyball with Skipper, Midge, and Stacie,


no thought of my withered genitals, saggy & sad with age

and overexertion because surprise! They’re gone! What a relief.


Oh, how once everything flowed. Whole babies emerged

from this parched ground. Was I ever able to rock


and sway with pleasure, every day a pulsing beat

of where can I use this thing? Let me at ‘em!


So juicy, dogs probably followed me around the block,

a delicious fire burning in me all over. Little by little, the oil


well ran dry, scraping, cinching, crumbling, as if someone

planted a Due to Dust Bowl, Closed for Business


sign south of my bellybutton & moved on to California

in a Model T. All is well now. Barbie’s violent pink accessory


kits don’t include shiny packets of Liquid Beads, VMagic, Astroglide,

Vag-o-Fem, hormone cream, or selective estrogen receptors.


No magenta dildo or blush-pink vibrator in the Glam convertible’s

glove compartment. Not one damn orifice in her at all, Barbie


ready for anything, no pain, no itch, no clawing desire to rip

out every female part from stem to stern and hand over the wrecked


package to the doctor & point to the smooth, smile-less

Barbie doll option posted on the office wall, saying That one, please.

Jessica Barksdale Inclán's (she/her) fifteenth novel,The Play's the Thing, was published by TouchPoint Press in May 2021. Her other novels include the award-winning The Burning Hour as well as contemporary fiction Her Daughter's Eyes, The Matter of Grace, and When You Believe. Finishing Line Press published her debut poetry collection When We Almost Drowned (2019). Her second poetry collection, Grim Honey, was published by Sheila-Na-Gig Editions in April 2021. Jessica lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband.

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Julie E. Bloemeke

Pronouns: She/Her

1 Poem


Rock Starr


Starr had me from the box: terrific

teen whose tops with everyone. Lacking

Mattel’s trademark blue eyes


and Barbie’s ambition to become

astronaut, doctor, teacher, Starr

was cool just because she said so.


In her red silk jacket, emblazoned

with S, she made me wonder what else

she could stand for. With silver short


shorts, a nod to Mork, she came

accessorized with her own phone,

a promise she could talk for hours.


When freed from her twist ties,

Starr showed her teeth, told me more:

we’d take over the townhouse,


teach those dolls a thing or two.

Created as Barbie backstory, Starr

wanted to burn it all, become her own


version of Homecoming Queen.

She confessed she hated her assigned

boyfriend, Shaun, with his painted on


blonde and copycat S jacket, told me

to leave him on the shelf, that even

that his packaging was a lie because


it claimed He’s got it all.  As if, Starr said,

wasting no time intertwining with 6 Million

Dollar Man because she dug his bionic eye.


Tuesday Taylor, the imposter, so wannabe,

angled to impress Starr first, rotating

her twistable scalp from blonde look at me


I’m Sandra Dee to raven-tressed Cher

who needed men like dessert. Sun Lovin’ Malibu

tried her immobile hand too, showing off


her sticker tattoos after burning away

the day in the windowsill. Even Kissing

Barbie got in on it, following Starr around


with her signature pucker sound.

They all envied Starr’s action poses,

her elongated neck, bendable elbows,


knees, realistic hip action, the way her body

broke from Barbie’s frozen poses. But after

the townhouse elevator jammed, an argument


escalated over who tangled Hawaiian Barbie’s

grass skirt, after none of Barbie’s heels fit

her wide feet, Starr pulled out another accessory,


her mic, told me we were meant to be rock stars.

Prove it, I said.  So we stole off to the basement,

watched the forbidden Rock ‘n’ Roll High School


and became our own Riff

Randell, whispering about Joey Ramone

and writing songs we’d have to sneak to guys,


swooning over silver studded belts and chains

hanging from jeans, dreaming of deep black

bangs with real hair obscuring the drummer’s


foxy eyes.  And the way she sang I want you around

as we tore down the cardboard high school

we built, creating fire with burnt orange


crayons, blackening smoke swirls over doors,

gloriously shredding it all and telling no one.

Starr, who sounded like my galaxy, strummed


for big blaze, played me quietly in the backseat,

revealed more embers that would burn out

my girlhood, reminded me there would be breasts


and Tampax, that soon some cute guy in Math

would listen because of my realistic hip action,

that there would be real kisses from real boys,


not the flat paper guys I drew, imagining

what lips really felt like, coloring my rock stars

with their guitars, fretting their fingers


over their zippered crotches, braiding

the Ramones into my hair, fantasizing

that I was secretly the one who had it all,


me on whom nothing was lost, me

with my leather jacket without an S,

burning it all down as I took my heart


out of my body, not wanting to be

a hardworking anything, but instead

a rock Starr, the popular and discontinued


girl, forever teen, 2 good 2 B 4 gotten, turning

up my Walkman on the world, as I taught

myself to dance the hallways alone, singing


through my teeth, exploding through everything

for no other reason


than because I said so.



Note:  The Starr line of Barbie, though extraordinarily successful, was discontinued after only a few years.  It ran from approximately 1980-1982.

Julie E. Bloemeke (she/her) is the 2021 Georgia Author of the Year Finalist for Poetry.  Her full-length collection Slide to Unlock (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2020) was chosen as a 2021 Book All Georgians Should Read.  An associate editor for South Carolina Review, she served as co-editor for the Dolly Parton issue of Limp Wrist. A finalist for the 2020 Fischer Prize, her work has appeared in publications including Writer’s ChroniclePrairie Schooner, Cortland ReviewGulf Coast, EcoTheo Review, and others. 

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Julie Marie Wade

Pronouns: She/Her

1 Poem

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Julie Marie Wade (she/her) is the author of 13 collections of poetry, prose, and hybrid forms, including the book-length lyric essay Just an Ordinary Woman Breathing (Ohio State University Press, 2020) and Skirted: Poems (The Word Works, 2021). She co-authored The Unrhymables: Collaborations in Prose with Denise Duhamel in 2019 and Telephone: Essays in Two Voices with Brenda Miller in 2021. Wade teaches creative writing at Florida International University and lives in Dania Beach with her wife Angie Griffin.

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L.J. Sysko

Pronouns: She/Her

1 Poem


I’m addicted to meet-cutes.


I wanna hear how Stellar & Squat found each other

in a gallery on Zoom, or how, moping post-divorce,

Stoic met Bumptious at a bar. How delicious


these stories are— refusing to account

for the meeting, re-meeting once beginning’s done.

I see, I want, I know. I knew. You/you/you.


If Ren & Ariel from Footloose stayed together,

they’d be 55 this year, dancing likely never.

Danny Zuko & Sandy?: 81. Oh, baby. Boom.


Where was Greased Lightning flying

so straight, so soon? Once, your touch

scorched my skin/soul/forever. Now,


forever’s come & we’ve assembled it

like Ikea furniture. Nodding,

we stand back together before vanishing


into different rooms. Box cleaved like a clam,

screws unused, & when our friends come by,

we recount The Tale…


…of The Day we brought little Kallax home:

how we banqueted at the end

of a table for twenty— meatballs,


lingonberries, & cake— knights running

royal errands on a map crowded with couples

out to hunt & gather, we had them one up—


riding high around kitchen land’s logjam,

reconnoitering a restroom deep

within a realm unmarked on the legend.


Glowing & heroic, we stowed Kallax safely

in the backseat & you said, I can’t believe

they’re letting us take her. We have no idea


what we’re doing. I turned to monitor

our future— crowned, quiet— &

climbed over: Go slower. I’ve got her.


Barbie & Ken once met/married

though I thought little of him— smug,

top down in the Dream Home’s driveway,


jumbo cell phone/tennis sweater.

No, for me, there was only Peaches & Cream.

I held her up in a shaft of light, turning her


organza gown, which clung like butter

to her bust & thought: she is Me.

Such breasts have got to be


standard issue, so mine’ll come soon:

via U.S. postal carrier— mailbox to body

like report cards for the file; or,


overnight when a magical pony—

bewinged & backed by a waxing moon—

bombs away & I bloom. Time works,


I knew, by steadily augmenting—

adding more/more/more until

we meet up with Ourselves


as intended. I’ll be her, I used to say

alone in my room, twirling Barbie

into a waltz wall-to-wall.


May I cut in?/escort you to prom?/

pour you a nightcap?/drape you in my

varsity jacket?/assemble our love


one step/turn— one fraught,

bickering, & laden direction—

at a damn time?


Forgive me, I said,

but I don’t believe

we’ve met.

L.J. Sysko’s (she/her) work has appeared/is forthcoming in The Missouri Review, Mississippi Review, Ploughshares, SWWIM Every Day, Degenerate Art, Moist, BEST NEW POETS, and her poetry chapbook: BATTLEDORE (Finishing Line Press, 2017). Sysko has been honored with both Virginia Center for Creative Arts and Delaware Division of the Arts Fellowships; her poetry has earned finalist recognition from Copper Nickel's Jake Adam York Prize, Marsh Hawk Press, The Missouri Review's Jeffrey E. Smith Editors' Prize, among others. 

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Lisa Hase Jackson

Pronouns: She/Her

1 Poem


After the Ban


Barbie was never allowed

to enter the one-room studio apartments

of my early childhood. Epitome

of sexism my mother said.

A bad influence.


I played with Fisher Price people

and fire trucks instead,

hosting water-for-tea parties with plush animals

quietly while Mom studied.


Out of the blue (and into the pink),

my mother lifted the ban on Barbie

because her early-childhood professor said

excluding Barbie from a child’s repertoire

denied her hours of imaginative play

(though I wonder what that professor would say

to the prevalence of body dysmorphia

among girls who play with Barbie today).


The price of a real Barbie, Lexus

among fashion dolls, was more

than I could spend. Only knock offs

from the TG&Y, coarse hair

springing from heads that popped

easily off and faces prone to concave,

found their way to my toy chest


until Christmas when I unwrapped

a real Barbie, the scent of fresh

soft plastic clinging to my pajamas,

my hair. Our bohemian lifestyle

of tie dye and paisley, of art studios

and second-run movies, incense

and crystals seemed shabbier, more tattered

             around the edges that day.

Being broke felt more like being poor


and I noticed more keenly the absence

of money and clothes, of certain types of food

in the fridge. Rather than becoming whatever

I wanted, as my mother encouraged,

I wanted all that was Barbie instead.

Lisa M. Hase-Jackson (she/her) is the author of Flint and Fire (The Word Works), winner of the 2019 Hilary Tham Capital Collection Series as selected by Jericho Brown. She is Editor in Chief for South 85 Journal.

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Nin Andrews

Pronouns: She/Her

1 Poem


Barbie in Marriage Counseling

“Why can’t I feel something between my legs? Is it my fault or Kens?” Barbie sobs. The therapist

shakes his head.  


“Have you asked Ken about this?” he asks.    Ken just stares out the window. They both know

Barbie can’t talk to Ken.  He blames her for the debt they’re in. And complains how she needs

Botox every week. And she’s always buying the latest trends.


“Even to cook pancakes, she has to go on Amazon and order a ruffled apron, cap, and matching

pumps,” Ken says. “And then post a photo of herself on Instagram.” It’s true. When the therapist

suggests they go out for an intimate evening, perhaps to a nice restaurant, or the local Dine & Dance,

Ken groans.


“Whenever we go out, she begins the evening as a princess in a full-length strapless gown and a

sparkly crown. Then she dares the waiter to pull her sash, and suddenly she’s a 60’s popstar in a mini

skirt with black stockings and buckle boots.  Press her necklace and she begins to sing.  Turn her

head, her hair turns blue then pink then green. And of course, she has to snap photos all of this and

post them every ten seconds. If she gets only a thousand likes, she sulks.”


“That’s why I go out alone,” Barbie cries.  “Ken doesn’t want me to express myself.”

“Can you agree to leave your iPhone behind?” the therapist asks? “Just once?”


Barbie throws herself on the therapist couch. She sweeps her hair to one side and unbuttons her

blouse, then snaps a photo. Beneath it she writes, “Even my therapist doesn’t understand any of

this.” She posts and tweets and Instagrams it.


The LIKES start pouring in. LIKES and LIKES and more LIKES. She feels better then. So much

better. She likes the LIKES so much, she even wonders if that’s what sex really is.

The author of 7 chapbooks and 7 full-length poetry collections, Nin Andrews (she/her) has won two Ohio individual artist grants, the Pearl Chapbook Contest, the Kent State University chapbook contest, the Gerald Cable Poetry Award, and the 2016 Ohioana Poetry Award. Her poems have appeared in many literary reviews and anthologies including Agni, The Paris Review, The Best of the Prose Poem, and four volumes of Best American Poetry. Her book, The Last Orgasm, was published by Etruscan Press in 2020.

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Stephen Zerrance

Pronouns: He/Him

1 Poem


Barbie on the Creation of Ken


Back from the war in my revenge

dress, I’ve come to kill love. Alexa—


bring me the axe. I’ll carve the idealized man

out of living stone: chemically happy, dumb


as hair. A man in motion

is most important. To the femur—


make it long so he’ll walk right

out my life. Give the arms strength


to beat me black & blue. I’ll make a fast

machine so I don’t have to compete with anyone


but myself. There should be no voice box—

the inner world only teeth shattering dreams.


I’m fasten eyes to get lost in,

to crawl inside. The pulling of his lower nerve


will stop time. It is here

the true site of human bloom.


Alexa—turn on the gas.

Alexa—strike the match. Behold:


the temple in man. I walk home

through his hypostyle halls. I touch his skin.


I see wonderful things.

I see the end of the world.

Stephen Zerance (he/him) is the author of Safe Danger (Indolent Books 2018). He has been previously published in West Branch, Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, Knockout, among other journals. He has also been featured on the websites of Lambda Literary and Split This Rock. 

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