TOM ZIMMERMAN
Atlas
We’ve fed the dog and spread the final bags
of mulch out back. I’ve cracked a beer, of course.
Now Thumper, Dad’s old pasta pot, is rocking
on the stovetop. He’s been dead . . . how long?
Mom, also gone, collapses time: “I push
you out. And now . . . around. Suck in your gut.”
I see our neon lights for Halloween—
a purple skull, an arch-backed cauldron cat—
lie deadly on the kitchen table. Your
HGTV fixation holds. An Atlas
of my own imagination, I
am ruptured holding up my world. Inside
or out, fair weather darkens with my fate.
Am I the same young self that ate my shadow?
Pop psychology. God’s love is crushing
me. Dark angel smiles: “Survive this. Try.”
WCC POETRY CLUB 