Atlas

The weight of the world

Image: Zivah Avraham

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He buried himself
before
sketching his life out in solitude 
imagining women, kindness
presence
graphite, angles, curves
a softness where the heart lay
beating, gently
signposting a path through fog and smoke and shining slabs
running water, chaotic, along back alleys
shoes slapping, echoing, smacking
against red brick walls making secrets of mean backyards
with just enough space for an outside toilet, a mangle, a desultory flower pot, and
runner beans 
snaking to the heavens on bamboo poles sunk deep into reluctant clay

He ran, kept on running, like water, like water
chasing himself to the lowest point
finding his level
crampons scraping grammar school gates
until he found solace in grey blue eyes
eyebrow arches, a fleeting smile
and the seeing of his soul
fingers itching to tell her story in charcoal
body aching to describe her in the depths of winter:
and then running, running,
teen-age
rampaging through one, two, three seasons

“oh, isn’t she beautiful?”

the most he could say
the worst he would feel
projecting himself on walls of white
on suffocation, on street light beacons to
one more path away from here
and all he knew he should hold, so tight
and the chiaroscuro of the burial ground
as he pulled more soil and sods and sorrowful roses
stuffing grass and worms, yearning, into his mouth
silencing himself
protecting the daughter 
releasing the lover
escaping to the mother whose heart beat an
arrhythmia to the sound of his slapping feet
the sinful city of gunsmiths and jewellery 
sparkling with false hope 
reflecting on himself
and he shut his eyes
sketched another future 
again, and
again, and
again, and
again, and
again

Years slide
water runs
pencils glide
the ground shudders under the weight of all that he carries
threatens to swallow him whole

He dreams that his daughter finds him
and he lies there, still
made mute
Atlas laid to waste
bifurcating all you know is too much for one soul to bear
making gods of men is such a mistake
he would have thought, if he could
and still:
his fingers twitch 
striving, drawing the ghosts of his life
a mother there
a daughter here
a primordial embrace
together, at last

“it’s okay, Dad, you can go now”

Is he dreaming?
was it all real?
was that living?
is he living still?

The heart beats on
in female curves
in his daughter’s knowing eyes
in the mirror’s reflection
in the pages, scribed

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A poem about my dad, from, perhaps, his perspective. I knew him too well, but not enough, all at once. An oxymoron, definitely. But that was our life, as we knew each other, for as long as it lasted.

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If reading this impacted you and you have the means to do so, you can buy me a coffee - fair warning, I’ll buy books! Or notebooks. Or stationery.

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And… Or… you can do this!