We turn back to collect our shame.
We make a white cloth bundle of it ,
To carry it to the backyard to wash
At the well where shame is washed.
We have our gorge between home
And the neighbor, under his house.
We transit through it in its shadow
To the well where shame is washed.
We did nothing to bring us shame.
But we are a shame on white cloth.
We were born into shame on cloth,
A cloth that carries maps of shame.