In the 1920’s the cure

for insanity was amputation,

tooth extraction,

or a lobotomy.

 

I wonder if a broken heart

is madness or cardiac arrest,

a matter of semantics

or a forensic figure of speech.

 

Inside I am boiling

like a pot of paper wasps.

No wonder we didn’t stay

together – the past and future

 

circling both of us

like a kamikaze.

I look around at old mistakes

and twisted chances,

​

watch you leave my house,

the short walk down the driveway

your back straight,

the argument unending,

 

although I knew

I would never see you again,

the anonymous architecture

of our unspoken farewell