Sophia Tarin
In a canyon of commodity
comprised of mountains
of LED screens & a raging river
of refugees, rises a child of democracy.
Waves of people crash against
the marble pedestal of this stately son
astride a charging horse
like a naked baby painted
into the part of an angel without consent,
stripped of youth & made eternal
in allegory. Seeking respite on the marble
is Lady Liberty prostrated, her back cracked forward,
a powdered turquoise Quasimodo,
a shiny new penny dulled by the breath of wealth.
Weary from the day’s labor color drains
from her face, aging her as green drips downward
revealing sinister undertones. Unlike the pedestal of
the monument, Liberty wobbles on stilts
metal holders for an amputated foundation.
Tainted green by greed, she engulfs paper
hand over fist, arms stretched for take
counting tinted paper in a sweeping gesture
slow & exaggerated flicking each dollar
rolling & consuming into her costume,
a habitual custom. A destitute prostitute,
whose ideals are pimped like pulp images
on bright screens luring shiny new citizens
divided by the admission fee & the daily tax.
This child soldier above a sea of pavement & trash,
this lady constructed against the deaf & defecating,
this mock mobility, this mock nobility,
the refuge of a once seemed noble cause.
Through the waves of people,
carved into the pedestal’s foundation
is the prayer: “Rumors of War.”