An Oblate Sphere

by George Bowering

When we fall in love, we do not tumble
for perfect features, not for the ideal neck,
not Max Factor, guy got everything wrong.
We love a quirk, an irregular turn of some
foot or phrase.  Oh, that was just right,
we say, and there’s no way of backing it up,
we just hold it to us as our own, so it
doesn’t matter who else would know, as if
a dog or a heart skipped and no one else
noticed.  Wendy’s ankles were a little thick,
Frannie had a voice no one else liked,
the Earth, remember, is an oblate sphere;
when I was a forestry marker we abjured
imperfect specimens, and I wondered why.
When I fall in love, it will be forever,
we sang, and half-believed—we had spaces
to occupy in our own young brains.  Surely
the Garden of Eden was lovable because we
brought in the imperfect.  I’m telling you
I hope Eveline never did get that crooked
tooth fixed.