poetry

Aarne-Thompson-Uther Type 310

We’re all maids in a tower now (I’ll be

Petrosinella – like Rapunzel but

empowered, with a handful of magic

acorns), locked inside four walls, unwashing

our hair, unshaving our armpits and legs,

loosening the casement once a day

to throw bits of old bread to bemused birds,

baking things we don’t intend to share.

Men lurk meaningfully outside, sighing

for a woman’s touch; they fret their guitars,

scan their plague poems below our windows,

explain how the two-metre rule doesn’t mean

we’re not allowed to talk. Please, they beg.

Inside we sharpen scissors, cut our hair.

published as part of Stories in the Time of Covid-19 on MIROnline

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