Supergroupers, see you in Brownwood Park at 6:15 on Tuesday, but stay tuned (on the FB page) for Saturday’s location. Rumor has it we may be at The Wall on Irwin Street.

For Tuesday’s challenge/dare, we’re doing triple double burpees, which are exactly like the triple double Oreos, except the doubles filling out the triple-decker are push-ups rather than lard. You get down, kick your feet out into a plank, two of your regular pushups, down dog, two higher-level pushups, stand up and jump.

7 rounds of:

3 triple-double burpees
10 weighted squats  (5 squats if you have access to a barbell and can do heavy front or back squats)

It’s A-OK to break up the rounds, but try to do at least 3 rounds through in any one go. If you grind through all 7 rounds in a row, let us know your total time and the weight you used (if any) in the comments.

For Tuesday’s poem, we turn to the Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, a writer of powerful short stories (collected in Arranged Marriage and The Unknown Errors of Our Lives), beautiful novels (Mistress of Spices, Sister of My Heart, Oleander Girl), and – who knew? – haunting poems:

Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

The fields flame with it, endless, blue
as cobra poison. It has entered our blood
and pulses up our veins
like night. There is no other color.
The planter’s whip
splits open the flesh of our faces,
a blue liquid light trickles
through the fingers. Blue dyes the lungs
when we breathe. Only the obstinate eyes
refuse to forget where once the rice
parted the earth’s moist skin
and pushed up reed by reed,
green, then rippled gold
like the Arhiyal’s waves. Stitched
into our eyelids, the broken dark,
the torches of the planter’s men, fire
walling like a tidal wave
over our huts, ripe charred grain
that smelled like flesh. And the wind
screaming in the voices of women
dragged to the plantation,
feet, hair, torn breasts.
In the worksheds, we dip our hands,
their violent forever blue,
in the dye, pack it in great embossed chests
for the East India Company.
Our ankles gleam thin blue from the chains.
After that night
many of the women killed themselves.
Drowning was the easiest.
Sometimes the Arhiyal gave us back
the naked, swollen bodies, the faces
eaten by fish. We hold on
to red, the color of their saris,
the marriage mark on their foreheads,
we hold it carefully inside
our blue skulls, like a man
in the cold Paush night
holds in his cupped palms a spark,
its welcome scorch,
feeds it his foggy breath till he can set it down
in the right place,
to blaze up and burst
like the hot heart of a star
over the whole horizon,
a burning so beautiful you want it
to never end.