In Dark Rooms 1971 Poem by Terry Collett

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.