They Bid Me Cover— / I Am the Sun

They came with scissors for my voice -

said *a woman's words

are always too much

or not enough* -

so I swallowed the sun.

Now when I speak,

light bleeds through my teeth.

They brought a ledger of my body,

columns of *sin* and *should*,

but I signed my name

in the margin

with a match.

The preacher calls it *wildfire*.

I call it *autumn*.

At night, they stitch my shadow

to the courtroom floor -

*stay here, stay small* -

but dawn keeps rising

in my throat.

I am not the fallen woman

they tally on their tongues.

I am the hour

they cannot clock,

the verdict

that outgrows

its verdict.

Look how their laws

crumple in my hands

like expired tickets

to a train

that left

with my grandmother's bones

in its teeth.

They bid me cover.

I burn the curtains.

They beg for silence.

I am the noise

between the *no*

and the *yes* -

the static

in their sacred microphones.

Let them name me *hysterical*.

I'll name myself *horizon*.

And when at last

they drag me

to the edge of their map,

I'll whisper:

*Darling,

haven't you heard?

The earth

is round.*