I have a good eye. I can find beauty in anything and any one. The gnarled bark on a tree, the broken wing on the stiff little corpse of a cardinal, the age spots on my grandmother’s hands, the jut of an erection, the beautiful asymmetry of a face, the eery ascent of fungi on a log on my favorite trail.
Mostly, I have mastered the art of my own body, how to coax it to produce images beyond my wildest imagination. I know how to take sexy selfies, not just selfies. I embrace those things I once eschewed when I thought I had to look a certain way: the swell of my belly, the crease in my waist, my rounded arms and large, pendulous breasts.
With my good eye I see things differently.
The pliancy of flesh.
The curve of a muscle beneath flesh.
The curious anticipation of hidden treasures.
The idiosyncratic angles of joints which mark me as me.
I know how to use light to my advantage, to let it spill in behind me like a wave.
A good eye tells me when I arch *just so* that my friend, the light, will wrap around me like silk.
And a good eye tells me what you might see if you were on your knees before me.
I hope you see it, too.