To run
with a body
that strains
and screams
with limbs bones and ligaments
stretched at the seams
miles away
from seeking the gaze
of anyone anywhere
only the haze
of the finish line calling
the most primal parts
of an effort explosion
spray-painted like art
on the tunnels
that pass below
all that's expected
of women in a culture
that worships
the effortless.
There
is magnitude
felt in our bones
as we push back the earth
and bugs splat on the chrome
and gradually "maybe I can"
becomes must
and we haul toward the finish
our pulchritude dust
and all of the photos
show legs made of mush
with a jiggle and smash
of the violent downbeat
what if we saw them
and didn't delete
but used them as tools
to evolve aspiration
to stand up and say
i'll take strained ventilation
and skin patchworked
from vasodilation
from the blood that pumps
from my soul to my heels
because this
is what effort
is made of.
