Strange to be Beautiful



It is strange to see oneself as beautiful.
Strang to look in the mirror and see a human face and think-
That, that face
(Is me and)
Is beautiful.
Strange to move close and see all the problems in the skin and
Not notice and to in fact
Enjoy.
Strange to follow the curves of my own body as if they were the curves of another woman,
To perceive and comprehend them as such,
Strange to stretch up my arms and see my body as art, thinking-
This could be in a painting,
This could be a sculpture.
Imagine words crawling delicately across the skin,
(Imagining and seeing the skin
smooth flawless pale and protecting,
The words a poem.)
Looking myself in the eye not as a challenge
(So often- too often- done)
But as a mystery:
Who is this strange person who is beautiful?
Because at the same time,
Contained within the same accepting glance,
Understood by the same eyes seeing the same sight,
Is the body, the face, the curves so often seen as ugly.
And seeing in that body the aspects of it that form the ugliness
This time forming beauty.
Strange to look at my eyes and think-
Yes, they hide, and they're clear, and glittery, and with curling eyelashes,
and yes. That is beautiful.
Strange to look at my arms and not even register a presence or a lack of scars,
and to see (feel) beyond the imperfections on the shoulders and to hold my hands behind my head and think-
Yes, they're smooth, and strong, and even, and beautiful.
It is strange to see oneself as beautiful.
Strange to watch my hips dance and acknowledge-
      Yes, this is beautiful.

10 April 2004