I want to love models.

I want to feed them, and

Take care of them and

Make them better.

I want to gather them up

In all their scary gauntness, with

No cushion of protection and

Put them in a cage and

Fatten them up.

I want to slide home made lasagna

With clumps of Italian sausage and

Chopped chuck through the bars,

Until the models grow hips and

Thighs as plump as their lips

Until their boobs pop like 

Made up eyes, and when

The models reach normal body weight

The bars of the cage will break

Because they were only made of twigs

And the models will step out 

And be able to walk like normal people

And not have to propel themselves

By moving their shoulders front

First this one, then that one,

Just to make it down the runway 

And never smile.

And I’ll take the models home with me

And we’ll have a pajama party

But I won’t make the models stand still

So I can pin their PJs. Oh no!

I won’t pin the model’s PJs 

So they fall “just so”

In fact, I’ll let the models choose 

Their very own clothes, even

Try on some of mine 

From my closet, which

Come in much larger sizes 

Than the models have

Ever worn before!

And if my clothes make the models 

Laugh, I won’t tell the models to 

Look serious instead

I won’t tilt the models chins or 

Heads or tell the models to

Slouch on the couch and

Pretend “You’re strung out 

On heroin.” And if they are,

I definitely won’t take pictures

For little girls to see and copy.

But if the models want to dance

I’ll put on CDs!

And if the models want to sing, 

I’ll play my karioke tapes!

And if the models want to act,

I won’t let them.

And if the models want to flip

through magazines to see pictures 

Of themselves and say to each other

“That Prada is you or

“That Wang is you”

I won’t stop them. Even if the

Models want me to.

I won’t tell them who they are

Or how to be.

I might say “Hey! 

Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood is on!

And turn on the TV so Mr. Rogers can 

Tell them they are special 

For who they are.

And when the models get 

Bored and sleepy and their eyes 

Start to close against 

Their eyelid’s wills, I won’t 

Sneak around softly and put 

Cucumbers and damp tea bags on them

Because it doesn’t work anyway

And in the morning when

The models wake up because 

Their cellphones are ringing

And they have to go back to work

And let people dress them and 

Make them up, and twist or 

Spritz or tease or braid or pluck 

Or tint or henna or highlight

Or frost or grease or oil or wax

Or  spray or trim or clip or feather

Or  blunt cut their hair and

Stick and pin and paste them back up

on the billboards and pages and screens

slapped silly across magazines

I’ll say “Good bye Models

Have a nice day.”

one minute sixteen seconds