On Yiska's Breast. Poem by Terry Collett

Yiska watched
as the nurse
bandaged Asher’s wrist,
where he’d slit
with some other’s razor,
in the washroom unattended.

Washed and stitched,
the nurse bound around
with careful fingers.
Asher said nothing;
the demons had returned
as he called
his dark depression.

Yiska, her hands pushed
into the pockets
of her white nightgown,
looked on, her eyes
watching the nurse’s fingers,
the bandage holding firm.

She watched, not long ago,
as he tried to hang himself,
from the cistern pipe
in the unisex lavatory.
Watched as the nursing staff
banged and banged
on the door to get him out
before he succeeded.

She wasn’t going to judge;
she’d been
on the dark ledge herself;
peered into the great abyss.

The nurse, having done
her best, went off.

Failed again, Yiska said.
Asher stared
at the bandaged wrist,
the pain awaking,
the pulse still there.

He looked at Yiska;
her white nightgown
unbuttoned here
and there,
her bellybutton
visible pink and bare.

Back to the drawing board,
he said, some other
opportunity will
present itself.

More time
in the locked ward,
she reminded him,
that double click
each time they
come and go.

He gazed at her dark hair,
shoulder length,
her eyes entering
into his, reflected
him wounded there.

How unkempt he looked;
much like some wanderer
of deserts seeking a god;
much like (in feelings)
one crucified on
cheap wood,
splintered and battered.

She, like one undone, trying
to hold together, took
his hand (the unbandaged one)
and led to the washroom
unattended and lay
his head upon her breast;
not for sexual comfort
or desire, but gentle,
peaceful, human rest.