Perfect

   

“Be ye perfect, even as your heavenly father is perfect.”
~Mat 5:48

A life-coach told me,

"you're perfect right now."

I tried it for a day

and got completely bored.

After all, God is already God,

but who would be Me

if I didn't keep fucking things up

in my own peculiar way?

My blemishes define me,

jagged edges are the letters

of my true name.

Call me Broken Buddha,

the Half-Awake.

This universe just wouldn't

be the same without my sins.

I’m more priceless uncut,

mud-covered, a ruby

mistaken for a berry in a crow’s beak,

that gem of surprise!

Here's the sign of progress:

I'm even less perfect now

than I was yesterday.

I dedicate this poem

to you, my dear,

who discovered the hot mess

of your own precious body

on the kitchen floor

slobbering your tears

into the linoleum

while Good Morning America

bled out in the living room.

I honor the unconditional

catastrophe of your hair,

your crow's feet, the droop

of your udder destruction,

the warm spreading bruise

of your smile.

You have blossomed

in the compost of uprooted plans

and wastrel seeds of possibility.

No matter how scattered, you germinate.

No matter how fallen,

you are caught.

You plunge into the Hug

that was always already here.

We could hug each other

like that.

Anne's Photos: 'Lovely Dead Crap Still Life'