To Go Or Die 1971 Poem by Terry Collett

What books are those?
Yiska said.

Philosophy books
my mother brought in
to save me
from further madness,
I said.

I showed her
the titles.

She shrugged:
I'm too tired to read
after the ETC
this morning,
she said yawning.

She lit up a cigarette
and lit mine too,
and we walked
into the lounge
and sat on the sofa.

Nurses passed
by us.

The Scottish woman
stared at her hands
which were shaking:
the DTs,
she said,
need a fecking drink,
feckin nurses an' quacks.

Yiska's knee
touched mine,
her nightdress
had risen up
as she sat,
and my dressing gown
had no belt
(least I try
to hang myself) .

Did you not sleep
last night?
I asked.

No I didn't,
not well,
she replied,
I thought of him
leaving me at the altar
and got angry again
and lay there
in the bed
listening to rain.

She took my hand
and we walked over
to the window
and peered out.

Rain was falling heavy,
the sky a dull grey.

I sensed her fingers
fold into mine,
slim and warm.

I wanted you last night,
she said,
but all we had
was the Scottish hag
moaning in her sleep.

We both inhaled
our cigarettes
and stood watching
the dull sky,
both in our own ways
wanting to go or die.