he is wrong
he does not know
my truth. I am not his.
I cannot be owned, possessed,
taken, and given like a sack of
flour, or a pound of nutmeg.
I know he thinks
I have no voice, if I want to have
a place to lie my head...except in
needle and thread. I can sit here
by the fire, night after night and
sing my protest song in faded
colors of linen and flax
i will scream my truth across the hems
of petticoats and pillowslips that
he will never see.
I am my own person and I will
think my own thoughts, worship
my own God, hold my own tongue...
when I choose...
and govern my body in peace.
this is a truth...
and I will speak in silk
until until my voice is my own.
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