Beauty is Imperfection

Something to hold
Something to wrangle
They put your soul in a jail
Your ribs in a mangle

The daylight that struck you through
She knew the light in your eye
Was reflected pages of other people’s news
The cauterizing fish
Sealed fate in memories of stew

And a mother dressed as a stove
Hove a dish as easy as a sorry slur
Then sorry to have spoken or to have moved
I am both of them, thrower and thrown
Unleashed to anger when in the throat it should be sewn

I am my father’s yell and my mother’s quiet
And you could see in the long genetic party of the bridegroom pictures
Some 60 eyes of generations looking through
Looking through you

And you hove with all of them
To make the play twist forward
You are the screw