My Atlas

Beside me, the mattress stirs.
His arm lifts and he moves away, leaving my back cold.
His fingers brush the hair from my face
before his feet slip from under warm blankets to rest sparrow-light
on cool carpet. Turning over, I see his elbows pressed
tight against his sides, bracing as
nighttime bliss succumbs to harsh sunrise.

As I watch, settling slowly,
the weight of the world drops,
creeping from the crown
of his head down to bend his neck,
finally resting upon shoulders broad and strong.
He slumps ever so slightly,
and I reach out, pressing my hand
to his back as if afraid that it might
bow until it breaks. I watch, tears
coating the back of my throat, exactly the same
as two thousand such mornings.

He leans against my touch. "Looks like a gorgeous morning."
Outside our sanctuary, in the hall, the sound of feet.
A door slams. He smiles.
"It sounds like the herd is on the move.
I'd better hurry if I want to get a shower."

My Atlas steadies himself against the mountain of unpaid bills,
the corpse of our van in the driveway, empty cupboards,
opportunities held hostage by circumstance,
dreams unfullfilled, lingering wounds patched
with BandAids of hurry, necessity and responsibility.
He stands.

I follow him from our bed,
and wrap an arm around his waist.
Waves of strength permeate my skin,
and my unshed tears dry as he looks into my eyes,
his gaze weary with the needs
and demands of more people than he has fingers
and toes upon which to count them.

He squeezes me tight, always willing to carry me as well.
"You okay? That meeting is today, right?"
Warm lips and the tickle of his beard answer my nod.
"If you need me, I'll have my cell on."
Strides as solid as the ages carry him across the floor despite his burdens.

Turning back, he grins, and the weight vanishes,
behind a flash of radiant spirit.
"Mrs. Thompson's car broke down,
so I'll take her grocery shopping before I come home."
"I love you," is all I need say as my Atlas
balances the world on aching shoulders
and starts another day.