Jebel Katerin

You should know
that I was real.

A good girl
waiting for the driver
to pull up to the awning,
my father’s money in the handbag
I held tight against my body.

In those days,
I looked at nothing but royal Alexandria
and the mirrors in long hallways
that told me how the city saw me,
soft-fingered and spoiled.

But then I started thinking.
“I have a lot on my mind,”
I told my parents.

“And I think that I do not, after all,
want to marry any of those foolish boys.”

I wanted to sacrifice myself
for an impossible love.

I dreamt that I married Jesus,
in the mystical skies above ancient Egypt.

Things really changed after that.

I let the music and poetry
shine my feet away
from the dust and stones.

My heart silenced
the nobility of liars,
including my own.

I read Greek philosophy
in the back seat of the limo,
and spoke just a little too freely
to the driver and the ambassador
on the way to the reception.

By the time I cornered the king,
to tell him everything
that he was doing wrong,
I knew what was coming.

I wasn’t aiming for martrydom,
but I was the bride of Christ
in a kingdom of deception.

I had turned the mirrors
outward.

By the time it came,
I had soldiers, philosophers, and the queen
on my losing side.

I remember that
my feet were cold in prison.

I remember that the wheel burst apart
as my virgin body embraced it.

I remember the last stroke
of the blade.

I remember the angels carrying me
to an impassable place
in the heights of Sinai.

Where I spent myself
in wisdom, eternity, and mercy seeking.

Copyright Kay Winter