Atlas

I. He lives inside me, not sleeping—just leaning against the dark rafters of my chest. A moss-backed troll I call him Atlas, though he looks more like the rock in his garden— He keeps a room beside the heart— spare bed, mildew in the corners, but the sheets stay stiff with cold. He’s always stationed between the valves and the ribs, elbows locked against my sternum, holding the cage from inside. In case the heart kicks hard enough to shatter her way out. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t blink— just tightens his grip when she dreams of rose fields beyond the ribs Too dangerous. He’d mutter, Not worth the risks The heart stamps, her veins scream, her tears flood the lungs breathless— Old Atlas sighs— his breath a wisp of forest green smoke But when she grew tired and gave up for the night his pebble eyes soften toward the silence she left behind II. We share a pot of tea Me and Atlas, after the heart went to sleep —He still keeps a hand on the bones “Why don’t you let go for a while?” I ask His pebble eyes soften as steam rises A boulder can survive the fall, but she’s made of glass with hairline cracks “A fall?” I ask after offering biscuits He takes one and tosses it out, we watch the shortbread rolls down, the road uncharted They say the fall is there, at the end of the road “They?” the golden sweet disappear into the mist The ones before me, their warnings came stirring in the wind “They could be mistaken,” the warm buttery crust melts into my throat “Beyond the unknown could be a field of roses.” Old Atlas sips tea, then shakes his unwieldy head The moss on his body rustles— a hushed but heavy sigh