On our first date she gets fired for selling me half price drinks.

She throws the beer in her boss’ face and walks.
‘How am I going to pay my rent?

               I don’t care anyway he’s lucky I didn’t knife him.’ 
I remember the knife shining on the counter

               the one she used to slice lemons for vodka.
I look out the window at all that London going by.

I’m scared of her and utterly in love. 
A year later I visit her in Denmark.

We sit in the piano room overlooking Ward Z. 
‘There’ll always be music,’ she tells me

‘Leonard Cohen’

                        whom she’s translating into Danish

                        with the writer’s group she’s formed in the asylum. 
A single note from her finger against a key.

The grounds are filled with empty aviaries.

The ocean sweeps in towards a black pebbled beach.