Looking for Elizabeth

We park our car somewhere around the back
and hunt for where your ward is, but a lack
of signage slows us down, finds us testing
locked doors, looking for alternatives.

You’re in a room which smells of someone’s shit;
not yours, you tell us, looking vague, yet with
a hint of tired embarrassment. What you
mean is: this is not me here, complete.

You toddle to the day room; we follow.
‘If you see a woman in her knickers,
just ignore her,’ you tell us. ‘She’s not all
there.’ Your hands worry a yellow hankie.

At first it’s hard to see what’s wrong with you.
You can make tea, joke about the patients,
comment on the view from the dining room.
Offer us chocolate from a small tin box.

Numbers puzzle you. ‘I can’t seem to take
seven from one hundred. It just won’t fit.’
You close your eyes to try and picture it.
Your fingers flutter over blank options.

Your actions loop over themselves. Chocolate,
again. More talk of awkward numbers. We
try to tempt you with other things, like news
from our families. From next door we hear

a woman sing, her voice cracked with something
none of us understand. ‘Such a shame,’
you comment. ‘A nice lady, too.’ Your hand
comes to your face. You offer more chocolate.