Morning news. A photographer
is interviewed about his
new book of female nudes. He
justifies his work, tosses around terms
like beauty, genre, landscape,
body-as-art. He says
he created this book for women.

Safe-for-television images
appear on the screen I search
for a body like mine: matured,
well-traveled, lined, broken-in.

There are none like that.

I understand focus, tight frames,
attraction to unblemished skin
and stomachs un-stretched by motherhood,
lips yet to be wrinkled by years of kisses
and uttered words like “I love you".
But don’t tell me this book
is for women.

Be honest.

You, Mr. Photographer, in your
tightly-focused shots, left out
the multitudes whose bodies
languish beneath modest
clothes. You ignored the women
whose foreheads furrow
with thoughts that might precede questions
and who choose
to undress in the dark,
while fully aware of their worth.