The sculptures do it for me. The carved marble & stone broken down

into bodies. Often headless, a torso with the edges of appendages. I notice,

quickly, how perfect the Greek statues are, smooth white, cinched waists,

lifted breasts. It is when we reach the South Asian exhibits that I clock it,


how different the women here are. You can see the tissue weighing down

their breasts, the soft protrusion of fat over their stomachs, as if whoever


sculpted these have really loved a woman, seen a woman, known a woman.

I think they are beautiful. Plump & hefty & indicative of a different kind of


lived experience. I have never seen a sculpture of a body like mine, which is

not to say it does not exist, only that my body isn’t often likened to art. Only


space. My father once told my brother he was worried about my partner loving

me as I was because that meant I’d never change & I wonder if that’s what they


see first, my weight. My size. For a long time I didn’t think anyone but my ex

could find me beautiful, but then, the first man I slept with after him looked


up at me, naked, & called me beautiful. I use him as a reminder that the body

under all my clothes can in fact be loved, even by strangers. It has taken me


the better part of my life to love this body. These bones. This blood. I am an

ecosystem, running on chai & poetry & the love of women who have come to


be what I imagine sisters are. Women that argue with the voice in my head.

Women I think are beautiful who think I am beautiful. I wonder sometimes


about the word beautiful, if I’ve worn it out. But then, I call a woman in the

coffeeshop beautiful & she smiles & I glance at my hands, consider for a moment,


all I could sculpt.