In glimpses, her eyes look at me,
the look that says
“I am in here somewhere”

But her other self holds the floor,
very gay, full of lost words,
stories that wander beyond comprehension.

She is part-way out of the pit,
the overdose, revulsion at food,
a skeletal remnant.

Now drugged, cheerful,
she warns of the terrors,
the plots – today she won’t let
the orderly make the bed.

Still she sits lovingly with me
we talk of our children
as if our happy days
run on ahead.

Lari Smith