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)