Racing The Eight

Dawn so slight the haze of stars hadn’t turned,

The boat practically breathed,

As the oars rose and fell, rose and fell

Cutting through the reservoir,

Its calm waters parting like corn silk, and then

Squirming against the sides of the 8, lashing and lapping up and clawing like hungry dogs, Beckoned up by the scent of our sweat.

Flowing readily, our bodies a machine of flesh bound to the stem and track and pulley; our hot feet strapped in tight.

And the (Drop!andPull) of the catch and the jump getting more powerful, more frequent

With the coxswains crackled speech, stentorian over the thick silenced mist, Telling us So.

Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!

And then, (as we knew she would…)

This Is Your Sprint!

The loudest voice from its tiny source, snugged neatly within the back of the racing shell.

Then the stroke, powerhouse, balance, and bow. One united motion through 8 identical copies ; down to the stripes on their sides.

Chun-Thunk, Chun-Thunk, Chun-Thunk

Chun- , they turn the oar stick

-Thunk, they drop the blade

<No sound> as it pushes against the heavy door that is the water;

(but this door gives.)

Chun-Thunk

this is your sprint. In each one’s head

ChunThunkChunThunkChunThunk

The boat-train.

And Strain. Sweat. Agony.

In each one’s head: count each stroke with the alphabet. Sing “Molly Malone” if you have to…

MY GOD will this end?

SWEAT. Strain. Agony. “…In Dublin’s fair city, where girls are so pretty…”

Agony. Agony.

It’s only been 6 minutes, But Agony, Agony, Agony. One nears the end of “Molly Malone”

They sail through the dark-lightening air, shoot through the placid water, as the coxswain soothes over the horn.

Weigh ‘nough!

And 8 bodies shift, oars ceasing the catch, blades floating, still, suspended in the smooth air

The train roar silenced,

The boat no longer breathing, except for the individual release of the 8.

Done, for now

as the

lake god dogs,

appeased by the gift

Slip back down off the sides,

Into the depths.