groups

In the relentlessly uncompromising
fluorescent light of this dressing room
each imperfection of my body is
revealed for inspection and
mourning – the lost elasticity
of youth imagined.

My eye scans the mirror for clues
to this undoing, signs that it
just ain’t so – yet no drape of fabric
can hide the truth from such
relentless light, such intrusive
unveiling of age.

And then I see the other sign
brightly colored and lettered by
a youthful hand, its message
as hopeful as seventeen itself:

“Beauty is a matter of perspective”

On the shop counter, this sign and
others like it, laminate-preserved
to last forever and backed by
magnets to make them stick
fill an overflowing basket –
product of the Girls Project, and
yes, I say, yes!

Later, in the soft golden light
of candles lit to bathe the walls
softly, indirectly – forgiving flaws
as readily as angels gently landed
I see the same body revealed
and revel in its curves and flow
in line with the richness of time:
woman’s grace and heat
a welcoming haven.

And in that light, too, I see the sign –
colors shadowed but its message clear
as it rests against my lamp’s base
proclaiming at all hours, in all light:

“Beauty is a matter of perspective”