She is not perfect, not
a mandala or yantra, more
a rock on a cliff worn smooth
by rain and snow in their innocent falling;
a victim of gravity
She is unsymmetrical, one breast
slightly larger, a birthmark on her left hip.
The eye jumps and holds each
beautiful imperfection, tracing
an outline; a gospel of soul
She is perfectly imperfect
as she untwirls the towel, her hair
quietly falling, a drop of water shadowing
the same silhouette; undefined
as she crosses the kitchen
One would not want her to be
perfect, carved with chisel and awl,
carefully curated among the dead
in a museum or garden. She is
perfection in her imperfection.
May 8
May 8, 2026 at 6:25 PM UTC
She is not perfect, not
a mandala or yantra, more
a rock on a cliff worn smooth
by rain and snow in their innocent falling;
a victim of gravity
She is unsymmetrical, one breast
slightly larger, a birthmark on her left hip.
The eye jumps and holds each
beautiful imperfection, tracing
an outline; a gospel of soul
She is perfectly imperfect
as she untwirls the towel, her hair
quietly falling, a drop of water shadowing
the same silhouette; undefined
as she crosses the kitchen
One would not want her to be
perfect, carved with chisel and awl,
carefully curated among the dead
in a museum or garden. She is
perfection in her imperfection.
