Sally wore a neat checkered dress
that made her look like a walking picnic.
We brought honey and jam for the occasion.
It was a sunny blue day
in a grassy place between a park and a soccer field.
A row of bushes hid us from the park;
the field was empty; but the clouds
winked at us with their brightness.
I’d hoped to rip the clothes off her
in a beastly fit of passion, like they do in films,
but Sally was worried a button would pop off
so instead we used scissors,
which I placed gently under her throat
and snipped softly down to breast, chest, and thighs.
Then I opened the basket and withdrew the screwdriver,
which only barely fit inside Sally,
who was small and surprisingly meek.
She didn’t speak except to tell me where to go.
I imagine she was intent on the tube of metal
sliding its way into her, probing, tentative — until
finally a faint clink signaled the screwdriver
was in place. Sally felt it too: She breathed in through her teeth
sharply enough that I asked her if she still wanted me to.
She nodded without saying a word. So I twisted counterclockwise
and I unscrewed Sally,
not all the way but enough to loosen her up
the way she’d told me she wanted.
Then I withdrew, and she sewed herself back together,
so nicely you would never have seen the stitches
in her lovely white-and-red dress. We left
without saying another thing.
Sally had always been tight, had always hated
her own tightness. But though it was a simple enough routine,
I stayed awake that night and worried that Sally might never
be screwed back together quite so tightly again,
about how easy it is to take somebody apart with so little,
with a picnic basket and the blueness of the sky.