small indications of pain honed in the factory
of her departure, so that she wants to remove
everything that doesn't slide in neatly.
Filing metal is a bother—one likes parts that
offer no resistance, but do such parts exist?
Better to discard a rough one and buy it
new, she says. She's committed herself
to be so efficient it seems to me more
a disease than a cure. She throws out
the worn parts, but they were hers, too.
Can she be other than she is? I can't.
We each have our methods. I like gradual
decline because I'm slow-thinking—what is
obvious to others brews in me furiously,
then I fuel up or rust. But she is so
organized, on her calendar is the
exact action to be taken long before
she's responded to others. An act of precaution,
no doubt, as if the slightest liquid had power
to bring her back. To what? Not me.
I tell her you work with the tools you have.
Unless you're an expert, you don't even
know what's available. You never
have the right gadgets to fix the door,
but you fix it anyway, squashing this a bit,
hammering that—you can't waste time
searching for the perfect implement.
The door needs to be open now.