Vesna McMaster - Atlas

Heavy-winged night sits on my shoulder. The weight of night comes down like a soft paw, in velvet finality. An atlas moth spreads its powdery wings, channelling the moonlight into fractal droplets of incalculable weight.

What rebellion were we guilty of, to be so burdened? What Titanic fault?

Probably nothing. This is just the way of things. Earlier iterations must give way to later. Titans to Olympians. Moths, too, are more ancient than butterflies. I had always imagined that moths were chased away from the day, as if day is the default, and night the refuge. Turns out moths were there first. Resting while spreading out your powdery wings is the default. Once the garish sun bakes the air, wings must be kept closed of the powdery weight is lost.

Atlas shoulders the heavens jealously, only tempted away once. Is it a punishment, or exclusive guardianship? It’s all in the marketing. ‘Now with added weight, extra atmosphere with every shrug. Choose Earth for your exclusive vapour combination.’