The cheering had stopped,
all sound sucked out of the bowl
that seemed to turn slowly on a potters wheel.
The tension inside matched by the suspense
of the moment as the world watched, motionless.
The shaping of a base medal into a symbol
began with the crack of the starter’s gun that
echoed down the track to a past where
crosses burned surrounded by white sheets
and slaves were bred for sport.
A mere nineteen seconds
but the victory wasn’t complete
until a gloved hand pierced Aztec air
and, with its power,
took away the breath of the world.
