We're still here, pale as eggshell. Banished
to storage cabinets beneath instruction
manuals for vacuums and Nintendos
or forgotten in manila envelopes on top
of bookshelves. We demand fair play. Put down
smartphones and reach years back for your—
or your parents'—paper dolls. Feel our lithe

card-stock bodies. No batteries needed—no apps.
We ache for you to fold the tabs of our clothes
over our slim anatomies. Please drape me
in my blue dress and white apron, my shriveled
husband with twill sports coat and red tie.
Invent a domestic scene where we talk
and have tea. Walk us across the living room rug

as if it were a grand park. Open a Sears catalog
and cut out new clothes. We want colorful slacks,
purses; shorts, and tees for our lean children.
Cut out elephants from National Geographic
for us to ride. Draw a spaceship on a large sheet
of paper and place us aboard—we want to spread
our slender species across the universe.

© by Dennis Trujillo.
Used with the author's permission.