The Stranger in the Hospital Gown

I did not recognize myself in the reflection of the IV bag,
the face that looked back from the television had the tag
of someone I had met before in photographs and mirrors,
but the body in the gown was wearing all my errors
of the recent months, the weight I lost, the color I had given
to the disease in its slow processing, the driven
look of someone running the calculation of the ward,
the specific patience of the person who cannot afford
to not be patient, who has no choice but to be still.
The stranger in the hospital gown is me,
the stranger in the hospital gown is the decree
of what the body does when the body has been brought to ground,
the stranger in the hospital gown is what I found.
I was released and I resumed the identity
of the continuous person, the competent, the free
of tubes and gowns and schedules, and I carried the stranger
back out into the world with me, a permanent ranger
in the territory of my self-image, the knowledge
that the body can reduce me to the gown and the college
of the ward, and this is not defeat but information,
the stranger and the competent are the same incarnation.