In your dreams, Atlas laughs.
Opens his mouth wide as a storm,
says, “Little wolf, did you think
humans could handle the weight
of gods?”

Atlas is laughing at you and all you
can think is that the world is red
when it should be in gold. Atlas
laughs and the sky trembles
and your shoulders shake.

The thing is, ordinary humans
are built of bone and blood.
Skin as fragile as china, hearts
as open as the ocean. But you –
you are no ordinary human.

And yet, you are no god.

For gods, the skies are home.
But you, the woods claim you.
Child of Adam, child of Eve,
but heir to the wolves.

For you, home is a forest
painted deep, dark red.
Home is a pack, wolves
and humans and witches.
Home is gold eyes and gold
hearts and silver arrows.

Home is not Olympus,
not for the children of wolves.

Atlas laughs, but there is
something heavy in his eyes

Olympus is not his home, either.

Maybe the weight of the sky
was meant for you.