He stands before her
Like a man sent to the gallows
Head bent, looking unkempt
(Supposedly?) the posture of guilt

His mouth weaves together
Floral wreaths of honey
To be tucked into her hair
Or placed above his coffin
After his death
While his calculating brain is hoping
Her x-ray eyes cannot see through his act,
His esophagus, and into his stomach
Still digesting his last meal
Served by the prison officer
Consisting of a woman who
Smelled like drugs and roses except
The flowers sold outside now
Have lost their smell
- - -

"How will I know he won't leave me again?"
"You won't."