The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Panacea by Alison Strub

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Before Phrygian Powder and Pettit’s Eye Salve

I said: there will be no way for you to see past this fog.
You said: there is nothing on the other side of the eyelid for me;
the breaking of the dust around the cornea,
the shaping of lashes,
the painting with color,
was done without purpose.

From touch, you say, you can identity a breach birth,
remove a single strand of hair from an infant’s mouth.

I said: seek my face.
You said: my pearlescent eyes will never be cleared of their nacre;
do not bring me the calendula flowers,
yellow precipitate, Spanish saffron, or camphor.