Everyone admires the monument: no one admires the workers
cursing, swearing, scratching, bitching, cutting hands bloody,
like a reminder: remember, you are mortal.
No one admires the mortal: they admire the sweet, the easy
the beautiful. The mixing of mortar is not a sacrament, the
bloody afterbirth is to be buried. From a distance, we admire
the marketing materials.
With my hair up, in a shining dress, I am lovelier than a monument, sacred
and bloody-minded. From my lips spill the praise song of workers
scratching their asses
living something more real
than all the monuments of the world.