Elegy for Atlas

Poem by David Murphy

His upper body glistens with strength.

The shoulders bear the torque

and tension of the world.

Crouched in that way, does he feel the heft

of a fresh corpse in every new coffin,

and many in no coffin at all?

That lightens the load, so they say.

Bodies rot, which helps, as do shipwrecks.

In time, old buildings crumble to dust.

Forests are burned or felled—

he is grateful for small mercies.

They also say his shoulders sag.

After all, the population booms:

cities expand by the lorry-load.

Construction trucks wear him down

—or perhaps he detects no change on Earth,

being on his haunches, not looking up.

Does a ripple in those muscles

cause an earthquake in some continent?

How many grams does a teardrop weigh?

They all add up, heavier than oceans.

Joy is weightless. Love is light as feathers.

Hate cannot be measured in pounds

or ounces – only in tons that weigh him down.

The best-selling Glock is 900 grams,

AK-47s come in at 4.3 kilos,

not to mention whoppers like rocket

launchers, attack choppers, artillery shells. 

Do passing satellites and bits of space junk

irritate him the way flies annoy us? 

He turns his gaze away deliberately

He fixes that stare on distant stars

and wonders if there’s a planet

out there, waiting somewhere, that might

need a lift and be less of a burden. 

“