Hard to imagine Mary ever had a hand in creating Bedlam, with what she’d seen.
An asylum in a mad city, Bedlam beginsin a town ditch with eleven chain,six locks, four manacles, and two stocks,
to guard (or guard against) the menti capti,whose minds lay tangled in a landscapedbrain. Mary’s blue robe the only sky
for inmates; fabric swag from her cape-hoodto her belt the only evidence of a breeze.At some point, she was whittled down
to a statue, tucked in a plaster recess, a bubblefloating next to chained legs, a rough shoulderstraining at its socket as the owner turns
away from townsfolk, there as an audience,there for a snobbish gawk. Spoiled for sport,they come for a laugh at the lunacy next door,
a lovely diversion for guests and at a costof a few shillings tossed into a bandit’s basket,poor box ever-empty. They see as if a gallery.
A zoo. Patients panting in a pit of exhaustion,as spectators circle and flick barbed tauntsand jabs. Get physical. A freak show. Future
maps will lead others to a thriving museumwhere they’ll gamble contributions for a chanceto see bedlam and attend a theatre-in-a-ward,
where The Honest Whore, Part 1, played daily.(Here, let’s hope our imagination can zoomout to include the honest Bellafront, “female
hysteria” ended by sword, epithalamium unsung).Like so many songs, silenced, she. Unstrung.Eventually, the building buckles. Crumbles.
Photo by Diana Kumst on Unsplash