She crosses her legs,
one leg over the other,
dividing the dressing gown,
her foot dangling,
the pink slipper,
half hanging there.

The ward light
has no shade,
the light is naked
and bare and bright.

She gazes
at her reflection
in the window pane;
outside the darkness
of late evening.

I sit beside her;
we are both
in the frame
of the window pane.

I heard of your
latest drama,
she says,
had the nurses
rushing around
like headless hens.  

You know
how it gets you.

There's always
a different door,
the quack told me.

What's he know,
except what he's ******
from books?

These
are my dumb medals.

She shows me
her scars;
they are like bracelets
around her wrists
and along her arm.

Where'd you get
the cord?
she asks.

Framer had one
on his dressing gown;
they never
checked him.

Heads will roll.

Almost did it,
I say,
looking at the guy
looking at me.

So I thought
when I sliced
into my flesh
last time;
matter of time
I told the quack;
he wasn’t impressed.

I take her hand
and run a finger
along the scars.

Smooth, soft,
pinkie-white,
whiter than the rest.

She uncrosses her legs,
then crosses them again,
different leg over,
foot dangling,
slipper stained by blood
hanging half off.

Who are they?
Yiska asks
pointing to
the two reflected images
gazing back at us,
male and female.

Poor sods,
like Dante's souls
in the Second Circle,
I say.

She turns her head;
the female image
before us
turns away.