Cross-Fit (Muriel Allingham)

Be savage not average, it

glared from the white board, in

bold red marker!

Yes!  And

while succumbing to the pain

of torturous lunges, those

words clamped my attention. 

I want that! 

I want my idea of a revenge body, where

I emerge from mist with a glinting cross bow, as

fletchings quiver over my shoulder, I am

ripped—pumped, the form of Artemis!

Sore today, and

probably sore tomorrow, another

quote weakly scribbled in blue;

my thighs burn in the brutal

tearing and shredding of muscle, all for

an image of perfectly timed vengeance,

oh, but how sweet it will be

that moment when the

universe aligns, and

in that view, it is the makings of glory

an offering of hope to unrelenting torture.    

But search me, and try me

know my thoughts as they morph,

from bones of imagination, with

each primitive motion—strength grows, and

power no longer hungers to rage against a ghost.

Less do I squeeze an image of vengeance into

a final pull or push of weight;

the apparitions of a life ago remain, but

the power of Artemis is in me;

I am savage not average.   

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