Imperfection-Elizabeth Carlson

I am falling in love

with my imperfections

The way I never get the sink really clean,

forget to check my oil,

lose my car in parking lots,

miss appointments I have written down,

am just a little late.


I am learning to love

the small bumps on my face

the big bump of my nose,

my hairless scalp,

chipped nail polish,

toes that overlap.


Learning to love

the open-ended mystery

of not knowing why


I am learning to fail

to make lists,

use my time wisely,

read the books I should.


Instead I practice inconsistency,

irrationality, forgetfulness.


Probably I should

hang my clothes neatly in the closet

all the shirts together, then the pants,

send Christmas cards, or better yet

a letter telling of

my perfect family.


But I’d rather waste time

listening to the rain,

or lying underneath my cat

learning to purr.


I used to fill every moment

with something 

I could cross off later.


Perfect was

the laundry done and folded

all my papers graded

the whole truth and nothing but


Now the empty mind is what I seek

the formless shape

the strange off center

sometimes fictional me.