Imperfect

This week, I challenged my students to write a love poem without cliches. I decided to try my hand at it, too. 'Tis the season, after all.

imperfect

in our near misses

our only justs

in our spelling errors

or forgot-to-gets

or judgments.

imperfect

in our aim

when we hurl words

at each other

clumsy

in our retractions

in finding the words

we can’t peel back

because they are only

substance, not form.

yet in this cockeyed love

of ours

we see each other

as we should.

we fit,

and when we don’t,

we make it fit, seeking

grooves where fingers tread.

Our story is not about

a perfect golden band,

but the imperfect flesh

underneath,

imprinted on the body

which, even in

its forgetfulness,

is the home of memory

even in pain,

is the site of healing,

even if imperfect,

is yours.