I love you for the blue vein
which crosses your shoulder
like a river going nowhere,
the overripe sag of your breasts
that once let pencils fall,
your spindly legs
which barely hold your frame,
the frizzy strands of hair
that can’t decide
(despite the coiffeur’s best attempts)
which way to fall.
You tell me your dreams
in a scratchy voice
like old blues records.
You describe the womens
that you met today
and inform me that
they’re coming until nine.
Don’t change one mark,
one hair, one phrase.
Like the flaws
that Persian weavers left
to show that true perfection
belonged to God alone,
they increase the value
of the work.

(originally published in Vine Leaves Literary Journal)