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Some say
you were killed
by the mad woman
you made your second wife.


I always knew
ever the fighter pilot
you were on a self-destruct mission


Flying your jet
laden with bombs
some shop-bought, some homemade:
whisky, tobacco,
the knowledge your mother never loved you.


The vague verdict:
death from burns


Heat seared away your skin
yet when I laid my palm on your forehead
to say goodbye
you were colder
than the icebox
I found you in.