A Weightroom of One’s Own

License to Lift

The orange notebook where I track
	repetitions of the stitches that I knit
		and repetitions of the big three

is my tiny passport into the country of Squat.
	The muscled border guards need only see
		numbers and hashmarks and the focused look
			on my reddening face.

“Excuse me
	Could I
		Get a spot?”

I mean, could a woman get
	a spot 'round here? A bit of space?
		A weightroom of one's own?
			A squat rack of one's own at least?

I know I don't look like the type
	but turn my hands over and you can read
		my palm, my past, the yellow calluses on the pads.

The natives
	are grunting
		but each day

I flash my orange passport
	and take my place
		under the Olympic bar

I drop 
		with more plates
				on the bar
					each time

	My rainbow socks flash and I
get up again.

Another hashmark in the book.
	I've been around,
		and more important:
				I'll be back.