Glass eyes fit over waxed, jaundice skin.
“I love you,” he whispers to his darling,
Careful not to break her celery fingers;
“just remember that,” he says,
As he kisses her forehead goodnight.
“And if you don’t see me in the morning,
It’s only because I’m finding my way home.”

Her eyes bake briefly in the ceiling light
Before he flicks the switch, and takes
To the carpeted stairs. The house is filled
With photo-frames and still-life happiness.
It causes memories to filter out the reality
Of some former life,
Some weekend spent in the Masif Central.

They say the eyes are windows to the soul,
But Helena’s closed behind Roman blinds long ago.
Black dwarfs are pupils,
Set in the salmonella grey of irises,
That once were stained
In streaks of bottle green and ginger ale.

In death, this was not Helena.
It was a vinegar haze and deflowered carcass,
Preserved within her husband's arms.
As always he tended to her living,
As always he would fall to
violent acts of grateful lust.

The police stormed in
as he was putting on her makeup,
as he dressed in drag
and started howling at the moon.