Across the hangar in Chantilly, a decorated

pilot’s uniform encased behind glass. 

Pink dewdrop blossoms laser-etched

upon metal plaques, a date of birth,

sharp cries up my throat, you took a selfie,

the two of us. Why did you bring us here?

Bomb carriers enshrined instead of death,

ashen face for brunch. Tamagoyaki,

American divorce. No, after today we really

can’t be pals, and since we’re at it, 

your man stinks. I never liked the way

he spoke to you like a child, bald in relief.

Yuck, I didn’t like your man one bit.

Good riddance, what an ugly husband.