What is perfection?
A pale leaf in spring?
A newborn foal taking its first step?
That 95% on the term paper
you stayed up all night to
perfect?
What is perfection?
The proper temperature on a cloudless summers day,
all thought of global warming aside.
The birds sing,
the waves crash in,
the sun block
flows.
The poem written on winter night,
rippling with passion and seeping warmth,
the poet’s tears mingle with the pencil lines,
her heart breaking, just right,
to woo him back to her bed.
The sweet burn of whiskey
as it scorches throats,
celebratory cries
of “congratulations, it’s a boy!”
The setting red and golden
as he,
or she, or they, close their eyes
and wish for perfection.
What is perfection?
The sound of metal on stone.
the rattle snake, tell-tale call of metal laden redemption.
Slamming into another’s body.
The spectacle that is celebrity
fallen, dashed upon
(at least it’s not me).
The sight of infomercials laced with champagne ads
asking, pleading, begging for a dollar,
we change the channel.
White-Westerners traipsing through.
Jet lined whiteness crisscrossing sky-blue,
exhaust clouds hanging over small towns
in long weekends,
serrated knives slowly committing
environmental murder.
Innocence stripped away,
young girls’ lives stopped,
voices hoarse and fingers worn,
threads bare and clothes tattered,
hunched over last nights’ leftovers
forgotten, lost.
Rib cage protruding,
esophagus burning,
seeing only perfection in imperfection,
she’s perfectly, unnaturally, not good enough.
Her breasts sag,
her pants stretch,
knowing perfection only behind closed doors
and plus sizes.
Cringing from the mirror,
she whispers that, maybe this time,
she won’t feel ashamed when she buys groceries.
Envying starving girls
who envy starving girls,
not sure enough in themselves
they dig nails into flesh
and drag down
knowing only perfection in covered mirrors
and chat rooms.
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