Atlas Moth
David B. Prather
—Attacus atlas
Nebula on the wing, heavy
upon the shoulder, I would trust
this moth to carry the heavens,
take that infinite encumbrance.
Keeping the balance, the gravity
between bodies, the ever-expanding
darkness connecting us—this is why
a titan flies at night, unsteady,
guided by the ancient threads of starlight.
I wonder what this creature must have
done to deserve such punishment,
an edict of the gods. My back
is already broken, my mind
already tender. I think I may be
in a larval stage, eating
as much of the world as I can,
readying myself for a glorious change.
I’ve been waiting so long to become
something else. Some days,
I push my hands into the heavy earth
to get a sense of what it will mean
to lift this burden. Will I have to
push it up against a tree to hoist it
across the nape of my neck?
Will I have coppery, sunset-tinted wings
to wrangle all this weight, to bear
my share of the cosmos? Will I fly
at night with my brethren,
raising our bodies up through dusk?
Even the moon, deceiver that it is,
can lead us astray. The candlelight of the galaxy
is all the illumination we need,
these moths admonished with a name, a god
hunched over, all the firmament upon his back.
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