There they all stand
circling the star-spangled tree:
come-hither prom girls,
a hallelujah of glamour
outsparkling decorations,
and the fashion glitter pixies
all wild hair and super powers,
and the Google-eyed babies,
lifelike diapered wonders
who walk and talk and wet
enough to melt a dreaming heart.  

I got an Annie girl one year,
at least that’s what my mother called her.
Short brown hair and flat feet,
no fancy hair ribbons or house of dreams.
The only thing pink was her naked body,
and even that conjured no hope of a boyfriend.
My mother added handmade clothes:
off-color green dress too long in the waist,
baggy plaid pajamas, a patchwork jumpsuit.
Annie was shame, manacle, outcast.  

I realize now my mother did her best,
sewing scraps of cloth late into the night
after her shift at the factory.
Hungry, eyes bleary, fingers
needle pricked and bloody,
always worried she would never
be able to wash out the stains,
weaving in stitches of love
I had yet to learn.