My project in the collection of poems this comes from was to look at the events and crimes often attributed to Medusa. What you find is that Medusa rarely does anything of her own accord in ancient mythology. She is used by Perseus and Athena to commit atrocities. This is just one example.

But as often happens when writing a poem or when painting, the project has a life of its own and here my mind has wandered to Atlas’ metaphysical struggle. What would it be like to spend your life, indeed even your death, holding up nothing? What does it mean when everything you are charged and compelled to do is as absurd as holding up air. This triggered for me some of the challenges I face as a wife and mother. I hope the poem triggers other emotional truths in individual readers but it’s not really about Medusa, or Perseus, or the artificial thanks offered to Atlas. It’s about the idea of holding up heaven, “the whole vault of heaven,” and what that might mean for the poor soul who thought he could.

I hope that helps. And thanks for commenting!

Kathryn