A Room of Her Own

My home, my space,

except for nanny and the maids,

my needlework,

the duty to be paying calls,

attending prayer

and, dressed for dinner,

waiting for the gong

and one day to be asked.

My own—a set of two—

shared only with my Euclid

and Thucydides.

My visitors all knock.

We share hot chocolate,

play tennis on the lawn,

talk of equality and love,

the fight to win our rights.

We have the vote,

a royal charter too,

no need to hide behind anon

or to reflect a man

at twice his natural size.

This is my space for scholarship

to read and pen and thrive,

even without degree.

My maths proves useful:

I can assess my scanty nuts of coke,

apportion rationed quires and dilute ink.

The snow has reached the window ledge.

No promise of a BA gown

can keep me warm,

but I shall not despair

now men can come to tea.

An eco-room.

A modern phoenix

risen from old coal-grate ash

so I can shift my gaze

from keys to coots

while trying to turn a phrase

or check a reference on-line.

This is the en-suite life.

I thought I’d fledged,

abandoned the embarrassment of home,

but now I’m back

to teddy and a baby brother’s cry.

The virus makes me look

for virtue in the virtual

but supervision faces

seem too near—and yet too far.