Yiska smells
unwashed skin
the old girl

nearby her
foreigner
in long robes

browned fingers
cigarette
between them

smoke rising
I watch her
leathery

old lined skin
deep brown eyes
inhaling

the self rolled
cigarette
stinks in here

Yiska says
need some air
so we go

from the lounge
of the ward
to the large

dining room
where we stand
looking out

of the large
French windows
she never

washes or
cleans herself
Yiska says

just sits there
smoking that
cigarette

muttering
in her own
foreign tongue

eating meals
with her thin
brown fingers

what's really
bugging you?
I ask her

the old dame's
been here weeks
I can't sleep

Yiska says
all the time
thinking of

my wedding
which wasn't
just jilted

standing there
being watched
the white dress

and white shoes
and the prat
doesn't show

the cruel clown
jilting me
giving me

a breakdown
I touch her
thin white hand

by her side
sensing her
life pulsing

through her veins
her thumb rubs
my last scar

on my wrist
a rook caws
in high trees

above us
my scar damp
where she kissed.