Perfection

Here lies the tart, crisp perfection I bring

like those poems that lay languid on the page

of your textbook I borrowed yesterday

and I’m driven to distraction, knowing

that fragments of you remain in the spine

and Milton is closer to you right now,

with his eloquence and corrupted vow,

than I, when in my heart, I’ve called you mine.

Because of this, tongue-tied, I squeeze my voice

into a sonnet like legs into tights

picking my words like I’m picking a fight.

They’re more stringent than I- I have no choice.

This is the part where it’s supposed to end:

Wit displayed. Closure found. I can’t pretend…

I’m not Milton.

I live and love in free verse,

but when I think of perfect love,

I see those perfect words,

written like calligraphy upon my unskilled mind:

“…obstacle find none of membrane, joint, or limb…

Easier than air with air…”

Your skin cells grace those words

as my fingers caress the worn grey characters,

and I understand all too well the ineloquence

of our imperfect human bodies.