Atlas

He is sedated, cuffed, strapped

to a gurney. Thirty-six hours of madness,

some smashed glass and a busted radiator.

I called an ambulance.

He’s larger than this city, and so they treat him

like a pitt fresh from a fight.

I stay home. I tell them

he has two guns, that his dogs don’t bite

and that he has a tolerance for heavy tranquilizers.

I tell them he’s not dangerous,

really, and I don’t know who I’m lying to. I sleep

in clips and shudders. I dream

we’re in the woods behind the house in Norwalk,

and my brother, a child, darts around rotting stumps,

huge flowering heads of swamp cabbage.

He’s all red overalls between the trees,

flashes of crimson that spill through the woods

in trails, leaving me chasing, breathless.

I dream there are people in my apartment.

I can’t see them, but I hear their movements-

footsteps descending the stairs, the faucet running

in the upstairs bathroom. My mug of tea travels

from tabletop to tabletop. When I close my eyes

I hear my brother’s voice, small-

you’re not coming, are you?–

he could be eight, nine, twelve with his shoulder dislocated

after riding dirt bikes with the neighbors.

I placed my foot between his shoulders,

held one wrist firm and pushed

until I heard a pop, felt it give,

heard him cry out in pain and relief.

_________

Elizabeth Austin is a poet, photographer, and visual artist. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her work has appeared in the Schuylkill Valley Journal, See Spot Run, Foliate Oak, Driftwood Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, 3Elements Review, and Sybil. She currently lives in Newtown, Pennsylvania with her two children. Find her on Instagram at @elizabethbeingqueen.