Not a myth By Desyrae Carstensen

My father has a friend let’s say his name is Atlas,

He is always enduring even in times of uncertainty.

He could hold the weight of the world and yet appear unburdened.

I see now what I couldn’t before, a child’s eyes are so unsure.

They tried to convince me the kindest man was impure, even then their lies held no allure.

Atlas is a man with the soul of a child he always maintained his smile,

To me, his smile is a comfort and others a deception,

A cheap charm designed to compile favours from friends, They spoke as if needing help is vile.

I understand that as a child there was much I did not know, a gravity that I could not grasp.

I did not know why he would spend weeks on our couch.

I did not know what it meant when they called him a bum.

But I knew that he was a friend one I could trust.

Now I know those who spoke words of disdain were racially bias.

Though I must admit Atlas is no saint, though he is a soldier,

A soldier trained in schools where “saints” were armed with rulers and rape.

Some would have me believe that his response to his trauma diminishes his “use” 

I am so glad I do not see the world as they do. 

To them, he is the axle and they are the globe.

Blind to his worth, uninterested in his hurt seen as no different than dirt.

All because he is an Indigenous man on his people’s stolen land.