THE LABOUR
To explore femininity as emotional and physical labour rather than identity.
Clocked in at dawn,
hours of being wanted.
Steel-toe silence,
dust in lungs.
The shift was endless,
lift chin,
carry the legs,
smile on machinery,
build beauty like boxes,
up flights of judgment.
By noon, my posture ached.
By three, I belonged to management.
Paid in glances,
bonus if approved,
overtime in shame.
Slouched among ruins,
in borrowed overalls,
pretty warning sign.
The machines are humming,
softer, smaller, sweeter, again.
Again and again.
Left with stained dirt on my hands,
their standards,
still under my nails.
