Jon Ballard
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MODEL

The mouth parts demurely, yes, and the hips
move—as the box promises--like the real thing.
But the eyes blame me already for multitudes:

the broken promise of perfection, all
the leftover pieces sitting on the table
I couldn’t figure out how to work in. 

A dancer’s step.  A saint’s resolve.  The artist’s passion.
The clockmaker’s care. All tricky feats
of workmanship, requiring the small-

motor skills of tradesmen or minor gods--
out of my league.  She can’t be consoled, though--
my mistake of fitting in the heart’s desire

and a soul’s stirring. She sits on the floor,
naked and flushed as a newborn, looking
away now toward the open window,

the birdsong.  More than I ever intended.  

                           --Originally appeared in The New Mexico Poetry Review

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