The Negative

Poetry by S. Wilson Collins

Since junior high I watched
the gym rats toss iron

in the room with mirrors
for walls –
where weights whirr

like ceramic plates.
The room moved, piece
by piece and clanked
like a machine

under the engine drone
of the fluorescent fan
as a swelter draft
ghost tided
through and between dumbbells

like summer off tarmac; sweet
oil sweat slicked
and grated
in the grips. The rats
mushed and huffed
their reflections

bulbed like pomegranate, torquing
acid deep into muscle until
like a static piston
they fume
fossilize rust to bone. All that is left
is the whispering negative. One last rep
out of reach for nothing.

samuel_collins1Samuel Collins is an International Relations major atĀ the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia who resides in mid-coast Maine when he is not in school. Since high school Samuel has enjoyed writing about poetry, poets and everything in between on his blogĀ The Poet Pantry: Verses Preserved, Thoughts Unreserved.} else {

2 comments for “The Negative

  1. February 15, 2011 at 9:08 am

    Killer imagery, bro-ham. “torquing
    acid deep into muscle” — tyyyyyyyyyyyte!

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *