Yiska smells
unwashed skin
the old girl
nearby her
foreigner
in long robes
browned fingers
cigarette
between them
smoke rising
I watch her
leathery
old lined skin
deep brown eyes
inhaling
the self rolled
cigarette
stinks in here
Yiska says
need some air
so we go
from the lounge
of the ward
to the large
dining room
where we stand
looking out
of the large
French windows
she never
washes or
cleans herself
Yiska says
just sits there
smoking that
cigarette
muttering
in her own
foreign tongue
eating meals
with her thin
brown fingers
what's really
bugging you?
I ask her
the old dame's
been here weeks
I can't sleep
Yiska says
all the time
thinking of
my wedding
which wasn't
just jilted
standing there
being watched
the white dress
and white shoes
and the prat
doesn't show
the cruel clown
jilting me
giving me
a breakdown
I touch her
thin white hand
by her side
sensing her
life pulsing
through her veins
her thumb rubs
my last scar
on my wrist
a rook caws
in high trees
above us
my scar damp
where she kissed.
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