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4:25am
Abigail Michelini
The training sled flinches, then jerks
ahead, our shoulders dug in at angles,
arms wrapped round as if we could
make weight weightless by working together,
the stutter start of each repetition
forced out by a collective push for grace,
for glide across the damp field,
slicing up dog shit and slippery grass.
My children have made my practice for this,
one-hundred-fifteen pounds combined
plowing into me or dragging on my legs
as I sweep up the floor each night.
Here, we get it.
Up long before dawn running,
each from our own variety of demon,
whose demands coalesce as one: keep moving.
And how could we not
when our laughter threads pleasure
through all this pain, when the sky is a blue black
skin stretched over us, mottled with stars we stare
up at, as we flick our feet in the early air
and feel for the edge of night as if it were
a sunburn we could snag with a nail,
and peel open, revealing the fresh pink day?
Abigail Michelini
The training sled flinches, then jerks
ahead, our shoulders dug in at angles,
arms wrapped round as if we could
make weight weightless by working together,
the stutter start of each repetition
forced out by a collective push for grace,
for glide across the damp field,
slicing up dog shit and slippery grass.
My children have made my practice for this,
one-hundred-fifteen pounds combined
plowing into me or dragging on my legs
as I sweep up the floor each night.
Here, we get it.
Up long before dawn running,
each from our own variety of demon,
whose demands coalesce as one: keep moving.
And how could we not
when our laughter threads pleasure
through all this pain, when the sky is a blue black
skin stretched over us, mottled with stars we stare
up at, as we flick our feet in the early air
and feel for the edge of night as if it were
a sunburn we could snag with a nail,
and peel open, revealing the fresh pink day?