The Autopsy of the Broken-Hearted
by Elizabeth White

When the surgeons looked inside, his arteries
resembled overrun highway rather than
dark canals. His heart, a burned city, shone
with new darkness. Smoke arose from his
clipped veins. He had no airplanes,
no laughter, no streams but those unstrung,
no songs.

They removed the heart and checked the chambers,
which had grown a number of windows and doors.
In one room was a bed with opened covers and
a chair, in the other, a feather and the scissored prints
of a bird.

They noted where the prints dusted the sill, and looked
into the sky, which reached all the way to the blue
of the man's eye. They searched for tracks
leading down his arm, thinking love left in the last touch,
but decided it left through his eyes,
which were cool as ocean seen only by birds,
and retained the softness they'd had in life.

They noted the cause of death was love.

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