Perfection stares at me from next door’s mirror.
It is that thing
with empty eyes and rotting teeth,
whose bones are hollow of marrow,
whose brain hangs loose like live wires.
It stinks of jealousy.
It craves celebrity.
I can’t get close to it –
It ties my hands when I get too near.
Its perfect bones carve spirals on the floorboards,
an empty prayer uttered for reputation’s sake.
It scares the cats away and howls at night.
Perfection is wild and horrible
and I do not desire it.
Leave it to rot in the cellar where it belongs.
Let it preen its bones and groom its hair,
run its tongue through the castle ruins of its teeth.
This is perfection and I
do not desire it.
Charlotte Henson is a freelance poet based in Bury, Greater Manchester. Her poetry has been published in various places including blankpages, Best of Manchester Poets, and Writers’ Forum. Her most recent anthology, Pharmacopoeia, is self-published. Visit Charlotte’s site at www.straythoughts.co.uk
Turtle Way 