Torn Fibers
I write this on a phone
with headphones plugged into it
strapped around my bicep.
My nose has gone red
from straining against genetics and
the darkness in my bloodlines.
I do a superset of lat pulldowns
and incline curls with the straight bar
then tap out a line about memento mori.
It has taken me twelve years
of steady work to get this strong.
Still I am not the strongest man here.
There’s the guy on the bench with liver disease doing three hundred crunches.
There’s the young father with a sick daughter repping two fifty on the Smith machine.
There’s the old man who just lost his brother leg pressing four plates on each side.
I’m not the only one here thinking about age and women,
suicide and heart attacks,
the strength of my father.
Money,
work,
new plans.
First there is the rise—
strength,
power,
confidence
then there is time—
loss,
relief,
compromise.
The comfort in conceding
that the only way to win
is to quit wanting the world.
But my session isn’t over yet.
There are still more sets.
More reps to failure.
