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.