On Your Mark, Set

A group of girls 

not one of them acting normally—

they are not talking,

not breathing,

not blinking.

The anticipation builds 

within them all and even the 

coaches stop moving their mouths.

Their spiked feet are behind 

a curved white line—

drawn maybe in paint 

or chalk, done by a 

random, old official.

The distance between them and 

the finish is unclear—

maybe 800 meters, 

maybe 3 kilometers, 

maybe a mile.

Many girls are shaking as

they toe the line, but not from 

the expected excitement of new 

records, or the adrenaline moving

its way from their brains 

to their hearts and legs.

No, but from the utter fear of 

racing, of not not knowing 

if the race will end in 

heartbreak, if they will come in 

last place, if they will disappoint 

everyone— their teammates, their family.

But they can’t speak about

this, can’t talk about the crushing pain 

of losing the race before that sound, that 

all-consuming sound, 

goes off.

They are an athlete, the pillar

of excellence, the supreme

human, not the brittle little thing 

terrified of what comes after the official 

lowers his hands— of that

sound.