There is no powder on my feet

If you come looking for me,

I’m just a ways down yonder—forgive me, I shed my clothes.

My feet are clean,

And skin is jaundiced—

Yellow as it suffers stagnation

It contemplates inaction.

My palms are cemented inside the earth

Where the wind chafes my knotted spine.

My breasts hang heaviest,

They sway me ‘round my sphere—tormented.

Here I suffer.

Now, I watch

—and I am planning your song of welcome.

I will free you my jailer if you bring me my spirit

And together we will pray and eat

From the earth that I am chained

We will dance, in tandem, on the streets of Ash

Where we will stir up sacred powder and

Find healing on foot.