The elliptical is a little like a banana.

Its form, whether engineered or organic

reflects a strange truth. Freud might call it envy.

Although, in this landscape of water gallons

and grunts, it's not envy I feel, but fascination

with our nature of rebellion; its fights and bricks,

its wiggling free and blunt refusal. Its belief.

Despite this, sweaty and holding a wet wipe,

I search for the ideal moment to clean my machine

without an army of imaginations rendering me fantasy.

I'm tired, all the ellipticals in me are tired, of being object

and smack, of whistles and low moans and beautifuls

grasping at our ankles like thick vines in heat.

On the treadmill, imagine-- a palm's sudden weight

on your shoulder, late night, walking home from the bar.

A flicker, then flight kicks in. Remember: ear, nose, groin,

my father instructed my young self, pretending to lunge

toward me as I practiced on him in the living room.

Contributor Notes

Lark Omura is a writer of mixed Japanese and European ancestry, born and raised in occupied Hawai'i, on the island of Maui. Her poetry has appeared in The Rumpus, Prairie Schooner, The Offing, The Hawai'i Review, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA in poetry from Rutgers University-Newark, and lives in Brooklyn, NY.