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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
Copyright ©
Jasmine Tsai
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