Atlas

In this world, 

Atlas is a pregnant teen girl 

On a road trip. 

She carries the roads with her 

Like she does 

With worlds 

And promises, 

Like she does with mistakes

And strength. 

The roads 

Expand,

Before her: 

The only clear horizon.

 

In this world, 

The sun 

Gently smoothes 

The rugged desert 

Around her, 

The heat invades, 

Her car 

Like 

Relentless freedom. 

 

Her tires spin, 

And all goes according to the fates’ design. 

 

And she looks up through the sun 

Roof 

At the clouds 

Stretched like scars 

Across the blue skin of the sky, 

So small, they are barely noticeable, 

So unassuming, 

As if they are watching 

To see what she will do next. 

 

In this world, 

Atlas 

Uses the GPS 

On her phone 

And leaves the roadmaps stamped

With her name 

To the glovebox. 

 

She has pepper spray, 

A half eaten turkey sandwich, 

And 20 dollars 

In her backpack, 

She has a destination, 

Hovering over her like 

A curious cherub, 

 

Red cheeked and bright 

And hopeful. 

 

And when Atlas turns the wheel, 

In a way, 

She is the wheel. 

She understands 

The weight, 

The traction,

The pressure. 

 

In this world,

 

The adoption agency 

Is just a left turn away,

Let the world 

Be kind to her 

Let it remember 

Her promises. Her mistakes. Her wants. 

Let it embrace 

Her contradictions. 

Let it be lighter

For once.

 

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