Another woman kept this room before me,
I am sure. There is a husk of her temper yet

that rides the air. When I breathe in the burnt
remains, a strengthening returns. Rest assured,

we are conjoined in anonymity, although I learned
she died with her eyes open, if the nurses may be trusted.

When the whitecoats come, I invoke the posture
of the pasture, a flat expanse they trample

in the search for the root of my disease. The charm
is in the way they wring their hands when I ask after

my pretty predecessor. I’ve found a strand or two
of her red, red hair, cradled now and hidden well,

the beginning of a new concoction self-prescribed.
If I could find a fingernail or the remnant of a ribbon

used to lace her nightshirt closed, I would be closer
to the completion of my healing. I live to see the day

the whitecoats arrive to find me unwavering
in my form, the day I stand before them, whole,

and walk away with the shadow of my bedmate,
my mystic, my true physician who does no harm.