By Heather McHugh

A brilliance takes up residence in flaws—
a brilliance all the unchipped faces of design
refuse. The wine collects its starlets
at a lip’s fault, sunlight where the nicked
glass angles, and affection where the eye
is least correctable, where arrows of
unquivered light are lodged, where someone
else’s eyes have come to be concerned.

For beauty’s sake, assault and drive and burn
the devil from the simply perfect sun.
Demand a birthmark on the skin of love,
a tremble in the touch, in come a cry,
and let the silverware of nights be flecked,
the moon pocked to distribute more or less
indwelling alloys of its dim and shine
by nip and tuck, by chance’s dance of laws.

The brightness drawn and quartered on a sheet,
the moment cracked upon a bed, will last
as if you soldered them with moon and flux.
And break the bottle of the eye to see
what lights are spun of accident and glass.

• Nature

Poet Bio

Few contemporary poets have more fun with language than Heather McHugh, whose linguistically dazzling verse is both playful and profound. Born of Canadian parents in San Diego, California, she grew up in Virginia and attended Harvard. In 1994 McHugh’s volume Hinge & Sign: Poems 1968-1993 was a finalist for the National Book Award; her latest collection, Eyeshot, appeared in 2003. A translator and critic as well as poet, she has been a popular presence at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and is currently on the creative writing faculty at the University of Washington. See More By This Poet

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