Concerto for Perfection

Number is a place without flaws.

Studs in the wall:

Sheetrock panels:

Doorways:

Like a rare bird, breathtakingly delicate,
her exquisite face with its perfect skin
perched for an instant at
the receiving end of her jealous husband’s fist.

Beats:

The paint dried and suddenly

the accumulation of

and

wallboard and nail had become fully wall,
a finally complete impeccable holding back and dividing up.

When he had said marry me they were ideal together

for that

moment, she enamored with

his coming out of himself just for her, he entranced by her
caring that he did, their whole lives before them

white and unused. Perfect unison. Different keys.

The paint dried and this first unblemished moment
of pure roomness—as yet unsquandered
in the mind on the artifacts of refuge
or loneliness—was also the first note

in a long Adagio of downfall that then proceeded
through picture hangings, mouse chewings,
foundation shifts, and the bleedings and skull-impacts
of a woman’s head against the wall.

Hospitalizations:

These walls that severed a person so cleanly from
the outside became entrances for the cackling, dancing
advance of the fire, that witch with her infallible spell
for turning air and wood into human death.

The whole house burned to the ground
with her husband inside it and no one the wiser
and even some insurance money icing the cake
because her scheme had been foolproof.

Deceptive cadence.

Almost everything recognizably human had been charred
and seared from the body, she learned, except for
the horrifying contortions of limbs and neck, which remained
pressed forever into the exacting mold of the final agony,

the final agony of her favorite brother,
who she didn’t know had been asleep in the guest room
having arrived for a surprise visit that would have
been the perfect birthday gift for her.

Odds against such a double jackpot:

The days passed (precisely

)

until she drank a little too much and got behind the wheel
and there out on the highway
with its immaculate rhythms of speed

and distance and accumulation
she aimed her car at the guardrail
because she could no longer live with so much
perfection.