The Body Keeps Its Own Records

The taste came up around mile two—

copper, warm, the saliva going thin and pink.

I gripped the handrails.

The belt kept moving.

The person on the treadmill next to me

was not breathing hard.

Not gripping anything.

Just running the way I used to run

before I started keeping track

of what I used to do.

I slowed to a walk.

The belt accommodated.

Everything accommodates.

I ran my tongue along the inside of my cheek

looking for the source.

Nothing cut. Nothing open.

Just the body producing the memory of effort—

saying: you asked for this, and here

is what asking costs

at whatever age I am now

in this body.

The pink went clear.

The person next to me kept going.

I reset the pace to something manageable

and stared at the wall

where someone had mounted a quote

about not stopping when you're tired,

stopping when you're done.

The body doesn't read motivational quotes.

The body keeps its own records:

every mile you ran when you shouldn't have,

every time you slowed,

every time the taste came up

and you called it something else.