Flesh

I stare at myself in the mirror
And see a Renoir nude
Ponderous, pendulous bosoms
Soft slouch of stomach
Dimpled round mounds
Of buttocks and thigh
There are days
I loathe this pale, flabby flesh
Covering my true body
Which lays beneath
Svelte, slim, sexy
 
I stroll through Renoir’s paintings
On my computer screen
Bathers, Seated Girl, Nude in the Sunlight
Diana the Huntress, After the Bath, the Nymphs
Trying to see myself through Renoir’s eyes
Such adulation he stroked upon these women
You can see it in the golds, the browns
The creamy sweetness of their skin
The lush pink of their mouths and nipples
I imagine him lavishing his adoration on my flesh
Painting me in tones of peach and admiration

But the image fractures
My mind won’t compass it
I need a painter’s hands
To hold my flesh
In his brush
A lover’s hands
To hold my flesh
In his fingers
Perhaps then I’ll believe
In voluptuous beauty

Since when, I wonder
Do I need a man to tell me who I am
Or who I am not
Since when do I need someone else
To love this body of mine
So that I might too
 
 
Once, my flesh knew its own splendor
Without anyone speaking it into being 
Why does that surety fail
Now that the flesh has filled in
Why does my heart believe
Those who revile
When the evidence sprawls before my eyes
My body is glorious, glorious
Allure lies not in thick or thin
But in exultation
In God’s bounty
Why do I believe the critics
And not Renoir  

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