Classified Barbie

The first time I went to space
it was a joke, a white-elephant gift
in an orange jumpsuit,
not even a belt to accentuate
my waist. I popped up again

and again on the classified
flight, hidden in the stacks
of freeze-dried ice cream,
tucked into a sleep sack
for a laugh. They never bothered

with my helmet, and the moondust
rubbed skin from my neck,
pushed its electrostatic
dark into my seams. This was 1989.
They hadn’t yet rolled me

in ash from Mt. St. Helens
and sprayed it off with liquid
nitrogen. It turns out this
is the most efficient way to clean up

space debris. You can wipe
a memory without even
removing its clothes.