HELD PURPOSE
The coppery husk of a cicada clings
to the neighbour’s concrete, pertinacious
in its position, carapace, crust open
to the air, denizen departed old long since
in summer’s singing night after seventeen
years for this former flier, now a clawing
remain that will in weeks, months crackle
like a tasty treat needing only salt pinch,
at last falling under some casual foot
encased whose owner will not distinguish
exoskeleton from spent leaf—just another crunch
punctuating the surface prone to popping
in the naked weather under seasoned time
SIEVE
I was carrying sand in plastic bags
that weighed down the cousin plastic crate
in which they, jumbled, sat—
for seconds after I lifted the frame
then splinter! crash!
the assemblage lay in shards and grains
upon the sidewalk and adjacent grassy ground
except some bags in my suddenly relieved arms,
which bled white quartz, slipping, slipping—
I was out of time with no hourglass’s pinched channel
between now and the safe back then
below me the resting place not my choosing,
the order now a sprawling mess
due to my underestimation of the desert’s weight in my charge—
or hubris at the thought of carrying what the wind
will carry away to invisible
(How heavy could it be?)
unequal to the strength of my arms and back
accustomed to gravity’s pull
upon much more dense concerns
John Zedolik has published five collections of poetry: Lovers’ Progress, 2025; The Ramifications, 2024; Mother Mourning, 2023; When the Spirit Moves Me, 2021; and Salient Points and Sharp Angles, 2019.
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