Statue of Unknown Prostitute

_What on earth is that?
Is it a memorial?
A temple to the smaller gods?
Perhaps a tomb?

_It is the statue of the unknown prostitute
It is built here, at the side of the road
At honour of these women, no
Those men and women

That fell onto the battlefield of sweat and semen
Wanting or not
They were, they are, they will be
The angels of the paths to hell

And yet, sublime and pure
Bathed into spit from a thousand passerbys
Cleansing the world of sins otherwise compressed to living rooms
And hidden behind tall walls

For Magda, for Yulia, for young Franzesca
For all the little forms, in mini skirts and shorts
Just standing in the snow
And waiting for their breathing blanket

Red onto white, as corset onto skin
Eyes dim, weary, alive for longer than humanity itself
True greatness, these small women have achieved
Accepting into them the vomit of the worlds