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

gently

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:

biological alchemy

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.