Only an All-Powerful Name

invoked again and again

gives me victory

over middle age, a chronic virus,

the disinclination to lift these weights,

and the crevice between my eyes

reflected to me from mirrors that are everywhere

mocking the idea that my body can be beautiful in this life.

But I’m shocked to discover,

looking up from my hundredth whispered Bismillah,

I’m not the only one praying here:

the brute on the fly machine

with the black bandanna over his shaved skull—

R.I.P. WOLFMAN SHORTY inked by hand

on his right biceps, Twin Towers on the left,

his sexy little belly, if I read right, that says

he’s caught the kitty too (from shooting up,

my guess, and not like me, from men)—

as he inserts the weight pin at 150

murmurs “Just one more,”

crosses himself, kisses

something he holds in his right hand,

then touches the weights in front of his heart

with a tremendous spasm of will—

Oh God

help us to lift it

and go on lifting it,

the heavy burden of Your light.