After the first death,
Yiska said, there is
no other. From a Dylan
Thomas poem, I said.  

I know some one who
died twice. Unluck of
the draw, she said.

She crossed her legs;
the pale blue dressing
gown  rose up her thighs.

The locked ward
was silent. Early
morning. Pale light
outside the window.

I looked at the light
peaking through
the tall trees. Rooks
settled in the high
branches. All going
to die, she said.

She inhaled on
the cigarette. Grey
smoke rose when
she exhaled hard.

Dostoevsky said
something about
being in front of
a firing squad made
him realize how
much he wanted
to live or something
like that, I said.

Being left at the
altar made me realize
how much I wanted
to die, she said. She
watched the cigarette
smoke rise, flicked
ash into a tin ashtray.

You aren't much better
with your attempts to
go through to the other
side, she added. Why
did that guy of yours not
turn up on the wedding day?
I asked. She inhaled.

Looked at her fingers.
Said he didn't want to go
through with it. His father
told me. Undecided to
the last, she said. She
uncrossed her legs, sat
back, her head resting
on the back of the sofa.

He was a useless lover
anyway, she said. I looked
at her sitting there: hair
in a mess, no lipstick,
the dressing gown tied
loosely about her waist,
bare feet, unpainted nails.

Will you marry another?
I asked. It's snowing,
she said, pointing to
the window behind me.

I turned around. It was
falling snow, light, but
thick. She got off the sofa
and stood beside me,
peering out. What about
you, she said, breathing
smoke against the window
pane, will you try slit
your wrists again? Who
knows, I said, depends on
the darkness and unfelt pain.