The Relay
Second leg, third heat, twilight.
We line up on the staggered track,
batons like borrowed cigarettes.
I watch the anchor on my team—
his face wired with a grin
I know means only one thing:
he’ll chase until he splits himself open.
When my turn comes,
I explode from the curve,
thighs a furnace, lungs collapsing.
Hand out. Baton slap. Gone.
He takes it like a thief,
streaking down the straightaway
as the rest of us bend over,
gasping, praying not for victory,
but for him not to fall.
Because he always might—
and because one day he will.
***
Iron Mike’s Lullaby
He said every fighter has a plan
until they get hit,
but my father only quoted
the first half—
as if pain was the only scripture worth reading.
I watched Tyson chew through men
like they were warm bread,
until one night he chewed himself instead,
biting ears, gnawing his own myth down to cartilage.
When the TV clicked off,
Dad shadowboxed in the hallway,
bare feet shuffling,
punching ghosts
until the walls rattled.
I never asked who he was fighting.
I was too busy praying
he wouldn’t come looking for me.
***
Ali in the Mirror
I tried floating once—
feet light, mouth faster—
but what I saw in the mirror
was not Ali,
just a boy too heavy for grace.
Ali dodged the draft,
I couldn’t dodge my own body,
the weight that dragged me down
every time I jumped rope.
The rope smacked my shins.
I bled.
I kept going.
Chanting his rhymes in my head,
as if words alone could win rounds.
In the end,
I learned to sting,
but never to float.
Turns out the butterfly
was always a cage for me.
***
Bolt at the Starting Line
The camera zooms in:
he grins,
gold chain swinging like a pendulum,
time already surrendering.
Nine-point-five-eight seconds—
a number etched into every calf muscle
that ever twitched at a gunshot.
I lace my spikes tighter,
pretend the track could forgive me
for being slow,
pretend speed isn’t just
a language my body never learned.
Bolt runs like joy has teeth.
I run like I’m being eaten.
***
The Jordan Shrug
Six threes in the first half,
and he just shrugs—
like God didn’t just pull
a switchblade from his wrist.
I practiced the shrug in my driveway,
basketball cracked and heavy,
rim crooked,
net long gone.
When I missed,
I shrugged anyway,
like failure was part of the script,
like disbelief could be an alibi.
Years later,
I still use the shrug—
after firings,
after breakups,
after the doctor says,
“It’s back.”
That casual lift of the shoulders—
like nothing matters,
even when everything does.
***
McLord Selasi is a Ghanaian writer, poet, public health researcher, and performing artist. His work explores identity, memory, and our deep connections to the world around us. His recent works appeared in Apricot Press, Trampoline, Isele Magazine, Eunoia Review, Poetry Journal, Graveside Press, and elsewhere. Connect with him on X (@MclordSela64222).
