Help me, help me, I am never coming back to these weary mountains, never returning to your black skin . . . for white men do not truly know how to return to women who have waited for centuries.
Save me, save me, I was never leaving your custodial skin, never wandering off from the belief in what waited at your thighs.
It was the dead who waited there . . . you never told me your skin was so clever as to provide maternity for both dead and breathing, and I now see that even though you never spoke the words, your eyes danced again and again from the joy of this consummation.
You sought to marry me with the dead. Yet why must I leave? It is not you who sends me away, and not the dead . . .
then at the circumference I understood that I cannot see the enormity of the problem the dead souls must solve, while they, themselves, do not have the solutions provided me by touching skin.