His head is in the roses. His head
is in her lap in the roses. The roses
are in her lap and her hands are full
of roses. The mayor’s wife had 
given the roses to her. Her hands are full
of his head. Her hands are full of him.
His head in the roses. His head outside
of his head now. The inside of his head 
spattered across the seat. The back
of the Lincoln. Her raspberry pink
Chanel couture suit with matching pillbox hat. 
Her face. Her hair. His head 
is in her hands now and
she is so full of him. Of his head
outside of his head. It doesn't make any sense. 
An empty upturned bowl of skull. A vase
tipped and emptied. Now look at what you’ve done.
My skirt is all wet and the roses are ruined.
The roses are dead. Her hands are full
of dead roses. She is wet with it.
His brains are in my hands she said.
The tablecloth pulled out from under 
the vase of roses. The tablecloth darkened 
with water. Her stockings darkened with blood. 
His blood. She is so full of him. He is everywhere
like some kind of god. Now look at what you've done.
The vase shattered on kitchen tile. Heirloom crystal.
She had smacked him upside the head, John-John,
her little boy, gripped his wrist so hard and
she had immediately felt terrible for it. She
gathered him up in her arms and kissed the crown
of his head and she said I'm so sorry.
I'm so sorry his brains are in my hands his brains
are in my hands his head is in the roses
and his brains are in my hands.