We women ( and everyone) are handless in a new way
The men aren’t “taking care of us”, we make our own money.
But our hands hold a ghost, a phone
A screen, a scroll (as if we are “doing” something)
While our creativity waits, impatiently
For us to put down the devise, but do we?
Ghosts with no poems to our name, disappearing
Belittled, shrunken and denied
by the wizard of technology, the big kid on the block.
It’s a subtle form of diminishment, feminists unite!
In the tale of the Handless Maiden
The devil temps her father by mechanizing his mill for greater profits.
But you don’t get something for nothing
The devil gets the daughter’s hands( her creativity)
The feminine suffers ( but it has a happy ending)