painting by Brianne Kirbyson
Here’s a poem of mine from 2006; in my book Scattered Showers in a Clear Sky:
Rapunzel at Midlife
despite appearances, she liked the witch
– Anne Stevenson
She knew she was too old
to wear her hair long.
Those wiry grey strands belonged
in a hardware store,
not springing out from under a crown.
People never saw her cry.
She couldn’t cry.
Somewhere in her thirties,
the crying broke off in the keyhole
of the witches’ door.
She used her friends like tickets,
so subtly that most never felt themselves
handed to the usher,
crumpled on the floor.
The witch had evil eyes, but
they sparkled like black marbles.
She lived quietly enough
in a room above the drawbridge,
feeding the crows and sending them off
like carrier pigeons.