IN DARK ROOMS 1971

TWO PATIENTS IN A LOCKED PSYCHIATRIC WARD IN 1971

I watch her

on the locked

ward, Yiska,

standing there

by the large

lounge window,

looking out

at the trees

and the fields

snow covered,

her left wrist

bandaged up

where she'd slit

it open.

I study

her body

covered up

in the white

dressing gown,

her dark hair

hanging loose

and unbrushed,

arms folded

over breasts.

The docs are

not happy

with her now.

The recent

attempt of

departure

by slitting

her thin wrist

(now bandaged),

puts her back,

and them, too,

to a new

beginning,

building up

confidence

to converse

once again.

We converse

without words;

bodily

we touch vibes

echoing

along nerves

in dark rooms.