Till death do us Part

My wife carries a basket of posies
to hide the stench of death on her person

not that my end would leave a scent
stronger than her perfume.

Even now, beneath the cold soft dirt
where worms and beetles crawl through the sockets

of my skull, the musk of her flora crowns
her like a nymph. Deceives me

So I wish to fall into her again, into
a not so loving embrace laced with agony.

The last image I see is the sharpened steel
through my chest painting the bone-white

of my ribs red.