Caryatid Shrugged by Jenny Boyar
Someone told her, Artemis whisper in her ear,
that this was how to be a lady: stay still
for as long as the millennia will allow, keep
your forehead smooth as polished stone.
At some point it begged to happen.
These women in columns, stoic channels
to the light shifting panoramic. And would
it even matter if she did? If doubt
eclipsed across each shoulder? No matter,
when the head is what holds it all, thought
blooming concrete as body erodes to the years.
And yet. Her indecision alone?
would send the turning portrait of this world crumbling,
a swarming sea of white and sky and stone. Would destroy
this vantage point where birds don’t fly, they dive. Which is why
she stayed: she saw the world, gathered its contents, made
of her head this heavy bouquet, then let it be shelter
for the eons.
Sentiment breathes ascension. She gathered it all,
let the tides spring pillars of petals and wrapped time
in a stoic robe around her, then bid the Gods goodnight,
told them dawn was but a word for what fell at her feet, told them
the horizon was the looming concrete that would never leave her:
her thoughts overhead, all she could hold.