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
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