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
iamb ~ poetry seen and heard
Poetry read by poets: listen to three poems here
Published work
'Epicedium' Butcher's Dog 14
'Chiaroscuro' One Hand Clapping
'Floss' The Interpreter's House 74
'Amulet' and 'Aarne-Thompson-Uther Type 310' Mechanics' Institute Review
'In the shower with Gerard Manley Hopkins' Ink Sweat & Tears
'After us' Poetry Birmingham 3
'Caution Your Blast' Dust Poetry
'Sunset Over Watford' Ambit 215
'The man who has no curtains' and 'Shatterproof Life' Fire 28