The poems keep flooding in. Keats, Auden, Yeats, Pushkin. And yes, the Kaddish. The falcon cannot hear the falconer. Yis gadal. He was my North, my South. We stopped all the clocks and it wasn't time. She came back. She cannot stop fighting. We surround her, urging her on. Oedipus thinks he has the key, it's ketchup. Oh, the silliness of the loved ones. It is the genius who realizes that her life force is dependent on high fructose corn syrup. How could we doubt him?
She doesn't want to leave. Yet, she wants to leave. Although her minuet is interrupted, it isn't dancing so much anymore that matters. She must go. She is whole. He is not. He cannot leave her side for a minute. She is only present for a minute. Always elegant. Literate. Precise. The leaving is witness to shouting, needles pricking, monitors beeping. Oedipus takes movies. He is crass but his worship is sincere. He thought this love would last forever and he won't take no for an answer.
