Hypatia Shows Her Bloody Rag

R. Bratten Weiss

This is existential dread,

I am told, and cannot disagree,

but why then do I feel so happy,

like a saint arriving to kiss a wound?

Like a bald prophet who just found

a whole nest of bears to send

after the boys in the street?

Do you want to come to bed? he asks.

No, I am covered with coronavirus, she answers.

I’m starved for touch, he says. We will all be dead

soon, she answers. He runs his fingers through her

hair. She reminds him, this will keep growing,

after I am a corpse. 

There is nothing else to do, he says.

The grave’s a fine and private place, she answers.

She tells him about the philosopher Hypatia, who

showed her menstrual blood to a young admirer.

“This is what it is you love,” Hypatia said.

“Why are you so cold?” the boy asked. Later

The Christians stoned her. Stoned her to death.

(Actually we have no record of what the boy said.

I am just imagining it. In theory he was her student.)

Later, she says, the Christians renamed Hypatia,

Called her St. Catherine, pretended they

had never been the ones to martyr her.

Why are you so cold? he asks.

This is existential dread, she answers, smiling.

She is waiting for the bears, but they have vanished

into the woods, which are growing thicker now,

taking back the land.