Poetic Rowing

When you thought empty was empty— when the cox’s voice was just static in your skull— the boat that wouldn’t move—

One.

The first stroke cracks your spine like a curse you begged for. And with the snap— there goes pride.

Turns out you’ve been rowing air.

Two. Lactic acid ignites your blood.

Three. Shut that hell up.

Four. Now we’re moving—a funeral march.

Five. We’re in the goddamn trenches— and the cox just found another gear.

Six. mind over—water. mind. over. water.

Seven. What minor god did I piss off?

Eight. Regrets. mind. over. water.

Nine.

Ten. The finish line is close— not a ribbon waiting, but a noose finally tight.

Oh thank Christ—

(silence like a kiss on the neck—)

“POWER 10 IN TWO!” “GENTLEMEN—ALL LEGS THIS TIME.”

—anonymous rower One of us