The recipe of my body
offers itself in plain sight.
Brailled descriptions of everyday agonies
blotted across a sweaty foam mat.
More heat-spots on a radar
than zodiac signs.
Come evening, the stock is ready.
Churned with every jolt my body could hold.
Push-ups, the perfect strain
to melt muffin tops at room temperature.
Meanwhile hamstrings revolt
against every squat.
The stomach squirms
detesting every
single
plank.
Eight more seconds to go.
But your mind is already blank.
Until a high-pitched beep finally allows my legs to bow.
Perspiration tickles.
Instructors forget to mention that
or of softer skin
or of dried-out lips
or of snapping hips.
Instead, all focus turns to presentation
of staggering towards a mirror
on twitching thighs.
Pacing your breath (A short supply)
to spend it flexing, absurdly expecting
a magnum opus, a plat du jour,
SOMETHING to offer respite.
Tough luck though. No two-by-three portions tonight.
The above poem is for the NaPoWriMo2021. Day 1 Prompt: Recipe
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