brown haired barbies

Celina Naheed

When we were young and hairy, we liked to quote Laurine Christie,
so that our underarms would grow with the summer wildflowers outside

the pool. Double jointed limbs on gawky girls were born to embrace, so take
this melting, brunette Barbie doll we found face down on the golden scales

of the water and hold her tight for me. My mom thought owning a blonde Barbie
would scorch my self-esteem, so while you play I’ll suck on blackberries, while

my fingers simply stroke the waxy brown hair turning green. Maybe
the red juice, dripping, will rub off the chipping blue eyes revealing something

like ours. I was taught for every time I saw a pair of crystal eyes staring, dazed,
up at my unibrow, growing like black briars in December, to pick them, with gentleness

of handling fallen sparrows on the cusp of summer. They are to be tossed
into my Baba’s pond skipping like silvery pebbles we collected, hand in sweaty

hand on the lakeside. As they flew over the ripples, they never hesitated to kiss
the fresh white lilies blooming sweet, missing tangerine koi sprouting mustaches,

unplucked, just before falling below the cool, aqua current lost for good. Hidden
treasure at the bottom of the breathless water, I never knew that they could drown

just like us. I never knew you would dive right under, in hopes of catching one just
for yourself, leaving our pretty brown-haired Barbie covered in our sweat and swollen

blackberry juice, all alone for the entire poolside summer. With fuzzy arms, I embrace
her melting body, eyes almost erased, wondering if you would still do the same for me.

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Celina Naheed is an Iranian American visual and literary artist in Atlanta, Georgia. She has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, is an alumnus of the University of Iowa's BTL Writing Program, published in Anti Heroin Chic, the 2nd Justice issue of Luminiere Review, and is a member of the Aster Lit team. She enjoys Oxford commas, visual poetry, and coffee.

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