In the Heart of me I am not skin. 
In the heart of me I am full-blown madness, untempered. 
I sat about using my knives to skin, bone and sinew 
And what is left of Bone Woman. 

So slender and fine, 
She dances on the edge of the wind 
Climbs the rock walls of the Prison, 
Letting the stone splinters soften her heart to the 
Night. 

In the heart of me Bone-Woman sleeps, 
Keeps time with the beat of Earth-Heart, Death-Shadow. 
Sips the sweetness of Spring, and runs naked in 
Winter's cold. 

Though I do not speak with her, 
We rub noses and sniff the same air, 
Alert to cycle and ebb. 
She and I give birth to the same young, 
Versions of ourselves that we feed or not, 
And bury the dead ones deep, as silent seed in the 
Earth's ample grave. 

Though I do not speak with Her, 
In the heart of me, I live her Truth.