Rip



Only my hands were touching
the bar when the skin ripped off.
Hard calluses, knotted
there for months, pushed
and pulled into white rocks
of flesh clinging to the pads
of my palms.  I was gripping 
the bar, swinging in circles
around, up and down, when
suddenly the knots were stripped 
away from other layers
of fresh pink sticky flesh.  
Chalk and sweat seeped under 
the edges of my torn skin,
the stinging burn of each exposed
gash throbbing through my fingers,
curling them down into half-fists
tight and immovable yet limply 
tender, protecting the drying sores.
Fake flesh, like aerosol glue
sprayed across my grip, clogged
the porous pain until my fingers 
could be pulled straight again 
so a bandage could hold them,
gauze wrapped thick then
taped around and between 
their webbing so my round hands
would support me in practice again.








Mandy Holt