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Hypochondria, Least Powerful of the Greek Gods, Suffers a Breakup
Hypochondria tries to find what the formula is: time needed to heal divided by time spent together. She’s weathered many things before but wonders now if calling her heart war-torn is a dramatic attack on other people’s pain? Even with all the blood and bandages. The argument started when Poseidon wouldn’t call her a goddess, only cooed muse into the murky mirror of her ear. “But I’m a goddam Olympian,” she screamed. Muse felt so small, a word without the ugly growl and hiss of “goddess,” sounds Hypochondria needs to feel powerful. She’s already concerned about her shrinking stomach, stretchmarks on her thighs, this writing on her skin like an abacus of all the weight she’s lost. When Poseidon first caught her eye years ago, she’d been so impressed. Who didn’t want to spend each morning cooking calamari, eating on a terrace of seafoam and wrought-iron shells? To be drawn in a chariot of creatures half-horse, half-fish, swishing tails and gentle eyes always pleading for sugar cubes. And then there had been his beard—only auburn thing in the sea’s entire green. But what Hypochondria had really liked was how Poseidon controlled both droughts and floods. She’s always wanted a man who could solve his own damn problems. Hypochondria, Least Powerful of the Greek Gods, Visits the Hairdresser
Who, on Mt. Olympus, is Hera of course. Head mistress of tresses, split ends, and fringe. Hypochondria came in for just a trim, but Hera suggested something more dramatic-- a layered bob to frame her face. As Hera protects her neck with a cloth bib, spins her chair around, Hypochondria knows she can’t stay here for long-- the mirror worse than Medusa’s stare, vanity lights magnifying every broken vein blistered just beneath the skin. As scissors whisper too close to her ear, Hypochondria fears that the purple pooled under her eyes means low levels of iron. The laugh lines now illuminated mark her too old to be loved again. And here’s Hera with her perfect, poreless skin, pink with a shimmer that mimics the magic of champagne. She’s heard Hera makes mistakes on purpose, asymmetrical bangs and bald spots she crops with clippers. But who could blame her, really? Trying to make less of a threat the women Zeus admires. How he plants his eyes into their dimples and thighs. As Hera begins working rosemary shampoo and warm water into a lather on her scalp, nails scratching dead skin off, Hypochondria can sense in Hera the same pained scavenged look of animals, hoarding their harvest for winter. How they are never really moved by greed, just the need to feel more full than afraid. She closes her eyes and prays for anything but bangs. 
Emily Paige Wilson is the author of I’ll Build Us a Home (Finishing Line Press, 2018). She has received nominations for Best New Poets, Best of the Net, and the Pushcart Prize. Her work can be found in The Adroit Journal, Hayden’s Ferry Review, PANK, and Thrush, among others. She lives in Wilmington, NC, where she received her MFA from UNCW. Visit her website at https://www.emilypaigewilson.com/. 
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