A Recently Recovered Record of Things That Dying Women Said Hundreds of Years Ago
(Usually in a feverish daze)
There are so many nuns here.
Can you loosen my corset?
My blood is not ‘infected,’ you circus fools.
I should have gotten a dog.
I have a brilliant book idea.
My husband will be here any minute and is definitely not out gambling.
God, I’m sweaty.
This room could get better light.
Really? The war is still going on?
My much dumber brother Lenny went to university. Good for Lenny.
I had a great thing going on with my garden.
How often do you all really give this place a good scrub?
I wrote a play and locked it in the wall.
I’d like a cup of tea with no bugs in it.
Those candles are nice. Tapered.
My husband promised me that we’d move to a larger hovel.
The design of this place is all wrong. Of course.
Leave Ireland alone.
So my book is about a prince and a handkerchief and, well, what’s the point now?
Wimples.
Yes, your potion of herbs looks potentially helpful, healer.
Are you a barber?
Are people dueling outside? It’s distracting.
The king is a joke. Yeah, you heard me.
I wrote a bunch of poems and locked them in a wall.
This is my least favorite smock dress.
I really am so sweaty.
So my book explores questions of authority in relationship to what it means to be good.
Thanks for the herb potion. It seems to be doing something in my stomach.
I should have gone to Paris. Shit.
Is that all my blood or was there an army here earlier or something?
Last rites? Please tell me you’re kidding.
I think I see the Virgin Mary, and frankly, she looks overburdened.
My book idea is really so good. And now you assholes will never know.
I have thoughts about the moon.
Either this stonemasonry goes or I do.
Fuck this fucking baby.
