Rapunzel leans out the window
on the first day of the eighth week
of self-imposed quarantine.
While the prince lies snoring, 
her hair ropes behind her 
in 16-foot coil.

That I might climb the golden stair…
She sighs at gray split ends 
and fading streaks of lowlight.
The prince rattles coffee cups
in the kitchen, stomps heavily
on pale linoleum.

She grasps the end of her rope,
loops it loose
around wrought iron rail,
spreads fingers on free hand 
to break sideways leap.
In soft grass, she clambers 
toward the woods 
trailed by a silver snake.