Rapunzel Triptych by Rosalie Hendon

1. Mother

Unnamed, unknown

with an unwavering faith

in your longed-for child

and a craving for leafy greens

growing just out of reach.

Your daughter bargained away before her birth,

her name not even yours to give.

You reside in a silent house,

reproach and resentment taking root

in the empty cradle,

in the space across the dinner table.

2. Sorceress

Powerful, feared

with your high-walled garden.

You deliver swift retribution,

demanding the thief’s firstborn child.

You cared for her like a mother (you said)

naming her for the purple, bell-shaped flowers

crowning the herb her mother craved.

Until she shone too brightly.

To keep her safe (you said)

you locked her in a tower

with no door, no stair, just the one window.

When she grows up, takes a lover, plots her escape

it is a betrayal you cannot forgive.

You shear her hair, banish her to the wilderness,

pregnant and alone.

Motherhood was overrated.

3. Rapunzel

So lonely, whiling away the hours

singing above the treetops, watching the birds.

A prince was a welcome distraction.

Your powers were in your body:

your hair a ladder

your tears a salve

your fingers weaving your escape

Your downfall was the gap in your education,

understanding your own body,

and venturing to ask the sorceress

why your clothes no longer fit around the waist.

In the wilderness, you gave birth alone.

Raised twins alone.

Found your lover and cured his blindness

with your tears.

Robbed of family, friends, lover,

even the woman who raised you, kept you

You did the unthinkable and survived.

Thrived.

Made it to the shining castle they hold up as our reward.

You were everything you needed all along.