The Weight Lifter

Fluorescent light glares down through air tinged with sweat.
The woman straddles the bench, resting between sets.
My boyfriend moved out, she says.
She lifts with effort and extends her arm.
I study the ceiling.
He never meant to hurt me.
Her words are black and bruised and blue.
Her hands rise above her head, the weights collide.
I see her crucified against the wall of mirrors,
a tangle of bones resisting gravity.
I want him back, I can change.
I look at her with curiosity
or is it pity?
This grave gossip weighs on me.
So, hey, would you spot me?




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