Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, so that I may climb thy golden stair.
I’ve never posted photos of my younger self
as others do, often mistaken for their daughters
mistake I made seeing a beautiful girl
on a flyer a woman hands me; her long hair
cascades down decades toward this woman
asking for my vote. Been years since she ran for office
I point to the girl’s photo the woman looks at
as a lover might if this were Rapunzel, considering
what it would take, how easy in this digital age it is to…
I know and she knows I do, too
doesn’t know where that picture came from
reminds me who she is, or was
tenses blur in her voice
I do not have a daughter
I was never movie star beautiful, like that;
looking at photos of myself in an album
glimpsed through a recent one whose lines
roadmap back to a wide-eyed ingenue
I fall in love with instantly; though tempted,
I quickly turn around to avoid getting lost,
making a wrong turn
