Caryatid of New York

by Miriam Sagan

stands at the corner,

shouldering glass and steel,

the weight of towers

and the rush-hour glare.

Her face is

serene but chipped,

holding up the passage of time,

while the city breaths

sirens and footsteps

around her.

No one stops

to see how her bones

are now petrified to stone,

how without complaint,

she carries the sky.

At the blue hour,

when the streetlights flicker on,

she softens her

columnar posture,

her weight bearing resistance

and for a moment,

she remembers a day

before concrete

ordered her to stay.