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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem