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CEDARVILLE
REVIEW
10
Titanic
By David Grandouiller
Atlas sticks his toe out from under the comforter, and that was the moon tonight: a ghostly,
cloudy, arthritic nub. Atlas shrugs. What does he know? He spends his days spitting out his med-
icine on mitered sheets. The Fates will spoon-feed him a pureed breakfast. They’ll massage his
atrophied shoulders. They’ll check to see if he’s dry. He can’t tell me I’m wasting my time, that
everything into which I’ve invested myself is already passing away. He speaks in garbled sentenc-
es, or in whispers almost too weak to hear. He smiles good-naturedly below vacant eyes.
Where is Kronos?
He grows restless.
Where is Kronos?
I heard the rustle of his robes, as he passed.
I heard the rattle of his scythe,
I heard the striking of his staff.
Is he coming to devour me, too?
He’s gone. He came and went and all
We hear of him is a ticking in the distance.
Atlas pulls me by the arm,
His grip still very strong.
I held the world up, you know?
I cooled my fingers in the deep Pacific.
I hugged the horn of Africa against my neck.
Am I dying?