I. Six Caryatids

When weather wears, my concrete tears

exposing vulnerable limestone encased in

granite, marble, sandstone to pack, lye in

mortar, uncomfortably mortal fears

arise in due time, like clockwork limes’

tick-tock clock: simultaneous patina

and erosion, forward and straining under tourists

who take away with each unwincing stroke.

Structures resound, but I have never likened myself

to stone or wood, shell or sand. I sway in breezes

and pass through waves unmutilated and proud,

but the sound, round, echoes my vestibules,

crumbles me, draws me out into thin lines:

easily persuaded.

There are places I’ll remember all my life,

but there are shrines that only live inside of me

and thee, my goddesses, sly and knowing

in your smiles. So effortless. I have always had

a big head and always a need for a stronger neck:

For your kind, Sisyphean trapezius I offer you a piece

of mind, though

we both know you would never ask: you never needed to.