Sheniya Scipio

Indoor track

Bang!
The gun cracks
sound ricochets off the walls,
a storm of thud-thud-thud
spikes carving the banked curve.

The air turns thick
dry, hot, electric.
My breath fogs,
then disappears mid-stride.

I chase the next turn
like it owes me something.

Crowd noise lifts and swirls,
but all I hear
is my own breath
huh! huh!
and the bell:
DING!

Last lap.
My legs scream.
I hurl myself into the rush,
lean toward the line,
and slice through it
with one
final
snap.