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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