This is where Atlas touches the world,
sphere tilted all the way, almost
upside down from how those dusty school globes
show us poised; North up, South down.

Here, the salt of his sweat,
the heat of his skin and the weight
of everyone crushes the clay
the color of hard-packed blood and suns

too mean to set on chain-link squared patches
of pine roots, gravel, and sand. These swatches
belong to us, the sons of sons
whose fathers spent even our luck

on a war they knew they’d never win,
swapped it for someone else’s sin
that we carry like spent lottery tickets
or Bibles, heavy for the hope they carried, once.

So we smuggle contraband pride, now.
Tuck it under the floor boards of our rib bones
safe from those who only see our flag flying
beside burning crosses, inverted

with flames dripping at the tree tops
like wet sheets in a thunderstorm breeze
instead of laid folded in respect
for those who put their palms to the sky, his spine,
and shoved.