I love my body.
I loved it before, too,
when it was all thin lines and scruff
and I was finally embracing my Y
(with no shortage of retrospective irony).
Legs which carried me into mountains and across finish lines,
arms with biceps just the right size
to spin humans into bear hugs no matter their size —
not too tall or short,
thin or fat,
moving catlike through dance floors and canyons and
hearts with ludic vim.
I am him
and he was me
and it was good.
And I love it now —
angles slowly giving way to curves,
a merging of lithe form and liminality
defined neither by a start or end
but by the very journey itself,
likely for the rest of my days.
The same great legs
but with less wind resistance,
breasts which insist
at the seams of my shirt
and which whisper of new ways to love myself;
lopsided hips accreting asymmetrically,
stomach gaining dutifully
to warm a uterus that isn’t there:
and the indomitable will of the human
and the quiet competence of the body
collaborating as best they can
on an imperfect poem
written three blue pills at a time.
I am her
and she will be me
and it is good.
Words by Ada Powers
Photo by Arash Afshar
Model Ada Powers