mannequin 

for most of
my life i've been somewhat
terrified of the mannequins
in clothing aisles

in macy's with my mom
there was a few years where
they had bubblegum bright hair
painted on

hands on their hips
staring me down like deer
in jeep headlights--

their thin fawn-like ankles 

i tugged at the edges of
their clothing-- sometimes
clothes-pinned tight to
their hard white plastic skin

it must be a taut life

when they breathe does
it feel like there's fingers
gripped round their thin necks

i in no way resembled them
especially as a young girl

my root-beer barrel torso 
& tree-stump thighs

while we were picking out
clothing:
pleated skirts &
wispy white blouses 
i would frequently come
to their feet as if they were
statues of unknown deities

caress their smooth bodies
looking away so as to not
stare too long

pink hand up a calf muscle
brush against a bottle-neck wrist

i don't touch them anymore

i imagine them waiting for the
aisles to empty

sisters

neon ceiling aching

they share stories at night 

while workers stock the wracks
& windex the tall 
full length mirrors

they weep about how many hands 
they felt across their skin 

how the jeans were tugged
at around their waists 
how their busts where fondled
& their necks tickled 
by un-named fingers

they scream sometimes
but only when everyone is gone
scream about wanting 
to break their legs in enough
places to make joints

a pair of knees

for the ones with approximate faces
they feel each other's
contours-- 

thumbs across

eye-divots

this is where your eyes would be 

this is your sealed lips

this is where i would 
kiss you

for the active wear bodies 

they imagine themselves with
hands or feet 
or heads-- 

some want thick brown hair

others want size 8/9 men's shoes 
because there always seems
to be that size in the sale bin 

i sometimes wish i was
as ambiguous a body

enveloped in blankness 

un-answerable

t-shirt pinned to my back

i have never felt like
anyone has touched my skin enough 

not like how humans touch
mannequins but how mannequins
touch each other

searching for a discernible feature

something to make one
another unique

separate from each other

maybe a large hooked nose 
or dimples 

when the morning is close 
& the sun is a handful of
plastic gold streamer

they pose-- kissing
the backs of each other's hands

i stroll among them 

& they're frightened because 
i'm supposedly
human

i ask them to touch me
all over

their nail-swallowed fingers

they've never got to touch
a human like this before

i'm warmer than they
thought i'd be

oh will they tell me
something worth while about me

is it my freckles?

my rib cage?

my skin clothespinned
up my back?