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Jane Zwart


Our Most Endearing Fault


I will say this for the human race: 

almost all of us love a few ugly things. 


Not just pottery that enshrines 

small whorls of fingerprint: charmed


cobra in clay basket–or chick, neck

stretched toward the rumor of worms;


ceramic earrings heavier and brighter 

than wadded bubblegum but otherwise 


the same. 

                     And not just the items victim 

to use, to time. To care still for a careworn 


thing is not a feat of love. 


                                                   No, I mean

the chartreuse sweater vests no sweet aunt


made or bought or bequeathed, those

sleeveless knits whose glow bestows 


jaundice on the wearer. I mean

the DIY eagle atremble on the hood 


a HEMI rumbles, bald above but resolved

below with a pigeon’s dumpy hips. I mean


coffee cups that read I’d rather be

pillow slips overrun by ascoted lambs,


lamps topped with spaghetti lucite globes.

It is our most endearing fault: to love


mutant objects, kitsch and schlock;

to hold some ugly things dear.

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